THE ENEMY

 

I

 

Kellwryn tightened the heavy bearskin around her little brother’s shoulders and tied the leather thong that held it in place. "Remember, wait until they're marching to throw your spear." She said sternly. "When they stop, they'll close up, and it will simply bounce away."

"I know that." The boy said impatiently, his voice full of bravado. "Everyone knows that..."

"If they know that, then why do we lose so many battles?"

The boy didn't answer, and Kellwryn sighed. He was probably nervous enough. She didn't have to make it worse. The whole camp was quaking at the thought of what another defeat would mean to their already tapped resources. She should be giving her brother a pep talk, rather than frightening him with her constant advice.

It wasn't fair. Brennistch was still six seasons from his manhood. Six seasons before his training was

complete, and he was already called upon to fight. The priestesses had declared  a sign from the Gods that 'the children would lead them to victory', but Kellwryn suspected the Gods had been 'persuaded' to speak now that nearly all of the fathers were dead.

She looked around their own humble lodge. Three men dead in only seven seasons.

Her oldest brother Hagrith, Talla's husband, Kess...She shuddered as her eyes drifted over the

abandoned shields and swords that hung in the rafters of their little home, and prayed that Odin would spare her youngest brother.

"Look out for him!" She said sternly to her husband, Galgrin, thinking to herself that it would probably be the other way around. Although her brother was  young, he was far more capable with a long sword. She was constantly amazed that her spouse continued to return home, when so many of the clan's best warriors fell beneath the Roman blades.

The Romans.

Even the mention of the word made her blood boil with anger. They called her people “barbarians” - and yet they continued to slaughter her brothers and uncles like sheep for no other reason than to move the lines upon a map. Years ago -many years ago, she admitted to herself reluctantly- her tribe's lands had stretched almost to the Southern sea. There was peace and plenty. Large villages spread over the fertile hills filled with happy families and fat babies. There had been singing and dancing. Pelts were so plentiful that they carpeted the floors. Even metals had been available, as evidenced by the ancient, but still useful swords and shields that held places of honor within the home.

But all of that had ended when the wolfmen came.

At first they had been viewed as no more than raiders- an errant tribe stumbled out of its lands. But then, like weeds that grow back stronger when they are cut away, the armies returned. Every planting season they gathered at the border, blinding in their polished metal helmets. It was said that the invaders never bled- though it was impossible to tell through their scarlet garments. Every harvest, the tribes would be pushed back, relinquishing another dozen miles to the enemy, another fertile valley full of crops and wood teeming with game...Now their valleys were barren, their fields fallow. Children died with empty bellies while their mothers watched, helpless to forage even enough barks and berries to feed their kin, and too starved themselves to suckle the babies they whelped in the drifting snow.

They could fall back no further. Their little band, the village of the grey fox,  had banded with others all along the great river to put up a final resistance. Any man who could hold a sword, even the aged and the young, were preparing to wage war.

Sighing, Kellwryn checked her little brother's armor again, and then patted him on the back, shooing him out the door after her husband. Watching them, she mumbled a prayer to the keeper of thresholds, and then turned to the little altar kept near their door. Reaching into a pouch at her waist, she took out a scrap of dried meat and burned it in the flame. "Guide us ancestors." She prayed. "Fill our men with courage, and our homes with honor. Give us victory..." A shiver ran along her spine as a draft of wind made the small flame flicker. Perhaps she had asked too much. She dropped the ashes of the offering onto the table and amended her prayer. "...or at least give us final peace."

2

Legatus Maximus Decimus Meridas steadied himself against a large boulder and looked down into a wide ravine. So, it was true - the stories that he had been hearing about the northern tribes banding together for a final stand- a thousand campfires blazed in the valley beneath him. The Legatus had fought the idea of sending one of the high officers to check the reports, but Maximus was glad that

he had persuaded them to let him come and see this thing for himself.

It was unbelievable.

The one constant in the war against the barbarians, and the one thing that always seemed to pull the legions through, in spite of their odds, was their lack of organization. Northern culture was built around an idea of personal glory. Allegiances were to one's self, one's family, and one's tribe- not to the group as a whole. As a commanding officer, he could count on petty jealousies and self-promotion to pick apart alliances before they could become much of a threat. That was what made the camp in front of him so extraordinary. It had been building there since December.

Halowerth. The name was becoming known among the legion camps. Although merely a boy, he had been working relentlessly throughout the last several campaigns to build relationships between the tribes. He had recruited from the survivors of botched battles, convincing them one by one that a lust for personal glory would mean the extinction of their way of life. He had hoped to get close to the boy,

possibly sneaking into the camp, but he could tell from the surprising size of the operation and the

carefully posted sentries around the border, that such a project was best left to experienced spies.

"How many?" He asked the scout who was crouched behind him.

"Eleven thousand, more or less...."

"Who's feeding them?"

"Mostly they have their own supplies...Clarnict-nict-" The man sighed as his tongue refused to curl around the foreign name "The village of the grey fox is only a mile from here. It's small, but probably has a stockpile of weapons and food....you know how these creatures are."

Maximus felt himself frowning at the use of the term 'creatures' to describe their opponents. While he was no admirer of Germanian culture, he respected the courage and prowess of her warriors. Someday, a strong leader was going to realize that, working together, they could defeat Rome. He hoped that Halowerth was not the one.

"Have the scouts come back?"

"On their way now, sir."

"Good...we'll leave as soon as they do...no sense waiting around here to get caught."

 

Maximus and his men hurried back to camp.

"Where's Quintus?" he inquired after his friend, handing his reins to a groom near the Praetorium.

"In his quarters, sir..." the boy answered. "Shall I send for him ?"

"No, that's all right." Maximus brushed off his tunic and began walking toward the ornate arrangement of tents that housed the command staff. He wanted to speak to the other man as soon as possible. He knew that his friend would agree

to help him convince the general that they must strike immediately- Before the barbarians had time to gather strength over the winter.

Quintus would be disappointed. The winter before, while Maximus was visiting his

family in Hispania, the lieutenant’s pretty, young wife had given birth to their

second child - a boy. Maximus knew he looked forward to meeting his little son back in Rome while the troops wintered at Vindabona. Now those plans would be put on hold.

"Hard at work, old friend?" Maximus said , poking his head into the other man's tent. Quintus looked up from the scroll he was reading.

"Still alive?" - it had been the pair's traditional greeting since their first campaign together.

Maximus laughed. "Still alive." he answered.

Quintus smiled, then he became more serious. "What is the word on the German armies?"

"Worse than we had thought."

The other man frowned. "Oh?"

"The tribes truly are banding together- and they appear to be organized.

"What?" Quintus' face betrayed his disbelief. "The barbarians?"

"Yes- 13 to 20 tribes. I saw them with my own eyes. They are encamped on the north bank of the Danube."

His fellow soldier frowned. "What are you going to suggest...a pre-emptive strike?"

Maximus frowned. "That might hurt more than it would help...if the margin of victory were close it could convince the other clans to join the resistance. We aren't exactly at the peak of our form...." he said, alluding to the bout of flu that had crippled a large portion of the infantry.

"What, then?" Quintus asked, sighing in frustration.

"There is a way..."Maximus said, slowly, still working through the details in his own brain. "How many of our scouts have returned?"

"Nearly all of them."

"And our spies?"

"A dozen or so...you aren't proposing-!" Quintus’ mind raced to keep pace with his friend.

"I am. If there is there is one weakness of the barbarians that is the most exploitable, it is their propensity to fight amongst themselves....If we could bring in a challenger for their leadership, it might give us the time we need...I could-"

"You keep using the word ‘I", Maximus. Surely you aren't thinking of trying to lead this mission yourself."

Maximus blinked. He hadn't been, until his friend had mentioned it. Now that he had, it made perfect sense. No one knew what was riding on the situation like he did. No one could benefit more from first hand knowledge of his opponent. He even spoke passable Inceni- one of the lesser tribes of the eastern river- thanks to a nursemaid he had when he was a boy.

"Yes, Quintus. I am." Before the other man could open his mouth to protest, Maximus continued.

"It will be perfect...and *safe*. I'll take half a cohort of men with me as far as the breaks...we can ride in the center as though they've captured us as prisoners. The Germans will be watching...when we sense they are near enough, we'll make an escape."

"*That* plan certainly has no obvious risks..." Quintus said dryly. "Maximus, you are suggesting risking our men's lives- not to mention your own- for nothing."

"Not for nothing- for PEACE, once and for all...so we can all go home and see our babies."

He looked quickly to Quintus. Yes, the statement had found its mark. His expression was softening.

"Well, I don't like it."

"I don't expect you to...but I do expect you to support me with the general...and keep an eye on things here while I am gone."

Quintus sighed with resignation. "When are you proposing to leave?"

 

3

 

Kellwryn dabbed a rag into a bowl of water and dabbed her son's forehead.

"You have to quit fighting." She scolded, trying to patch up his wound, but her heart was not in the rebuke, and it showed. How could the child keep from fighting? He was only eleven years old, and yet he was already branded as an outsider. Unwanted. Fatherless. Wolf-blood, they called it. Marked for

life.

Kellwryn tried not to think of the night that her home village, Eagle's Nest, had been burned nearly twelve years before. She tried not to think of the innocent, happy thirteen year old she had been before that terrible day, but it was unavoidable. The consequences had tainted her life beyond what she had ever imagined. Her home was gone. Her promised husband, Taernin, had abandoned her.

Her son was an outcast.

She ran her hand lovingly along his bruised cheek, copiously bestowing affection. She hated to admit that, when he was very small, her son's appearance had been an affront even to herself. Unlike the flaxen, and fire-headed men of her tribe, his hair was raven black. He had deep-set eyes nearly as dark as his hair, and deep, golden skin that seemed forever under a shadow. Roman. It was undeniable. How could Kellwryn claim otherwise when each day he looked more and more like the face of her attacker? Still, he had grown dear to her. He alone had followed her (though, admittedly, not out of choice) when she had been cast out of her promised husband's home and tribe.

He alone had comforted her when she had- out of mere survival- found herself wed to her husband, Galgrin. Only Menchin...and her brother.

"When will he be back?" Menchin asked, referring to his uncle. The older boy was his only playmate- and a much needed protector. His loss was sorely felt.

"I don't know." Kellwryn answered honestly. "Many new moons, perhaps. They are going to a great council." With *Taernin* she thought, as her heart constricted with longing. "There may be war."

"War with the Romans?"

"Yes."

"I *hate* the Romans!" He said with great feeling, and she felt another pang inside her soul. No one hated his olive skin and ebony hair worse than Menchin himself. He was a brave and loving boy. He could be an able warrior-but he could never prove himself. His isolation grew more acute each day.

"I know dear..." She felt her fingers tighten around the rag. "I know..."

 

4

 

Thirteen days later, Maximus found himself in a rickety wooden cage led though the forests that lines the Danube. He squirmed, unused to the confinement, and uncomfortable in the rough fur and skin garments. Around his neck was a bronze torque. It was so much heavier than his bulla had been as a boy! Although it was perfectly large enough, it seemed to choke away his air.

Of course, he was not really a prisoner. The Roman soldiers who accompanied him would be glad to let him out to stretch his legs if he desired, but he agreed with Quintus that his plan was a dangerous proposition. He could not afford to take any chances that his charade would be uncovered.

They were nearing the ford of the river which marked the disputed boundary of Roman territory. Maximus knew that the Germans had been tracking them for several days, but so far they did not seem inclined to attack.

Maximus' stomach was in knots. What would they do if their rivals did not take the bait...Stage an escape of their own? Provoke a battle? He had less than two days to decide. He worked on the problem, while inwardly hoping that he would not need to make up his mind.

Sighing with boredom, Maximus looked over the other occupants of the wagon.

Three of the men were the legion’s most experienced spies. One of them had been born in Germania, but abandoned in a burned-out village and raised by a centurion with a softer heart than most. The others, though patently Roman, had spent much of their lives in German villages. One of them, Cassius, had a German wife that he loved very dearly.

The Spaniard was just considering the cost of such duality when a chilling shriek cut through the air.

The horses at the front of the wagon reared, wrenching its load from the harness.

"Legatus!" A nearby archer- forgetting heir ruse in the confusion- called as the wheeled cage began to roll backwards. "We-" But the man's words were stilled as a feather tipped arrow, soaring through the air on a deadly precise course, met its mark in the center of his chest.

Around them, the hillside seemed to erupt in a swarm of Germanic faces. Maximus gasped,

surprised by the size of their force. He fought a moment of panic as the soldiers struggled through the first moments of confusion, a second later, his shock had turned to something else.

They were rolling. Slowly, but picking up speed. The tether which held them to the horses had snapped, and in the confusion no one had noticed their predicament.

"Help!" he called, forgetting to apply his Inceni accent. "Lucius... Vatius...Privius!"

They were heading toward the edge of a cliff. Desperately, the men in the cage threw their weight to one side, hoping to make it tip before reaching the edge, but to no avail. There was a crunch as the wooden sides of the conveyance hit the ground, then a muddy skid as momentum sent them forward toward the precipice.

Then he was falling.

Blackness.

And all was still.

 

5

 

"BaheesithaauuulakahN?BaheesithaauuulakahN?"

Maximus's eyes slowly came into focus, but the words of the woman who hovered over him refused to cohere into sense.

"BaheesithaauuulakahN?"

He moaned a little with effort and his eyes slid shut again.

"BaheesithaauuulakahN? Maieeduaachallay?BaheesithaauuulakahN?"

The voice was growing insistent, and reluctantly he opened his eyes again. Where was he?

Panic gripped the soldier's heart as unfamiliar shapes and faces came into view.

He was in a low, wooden hut, lying on his back, bound to a board of solid wood. Every bone in his body felt broken. His skin bruised. His head throbbing with pain so badly that he felt as if he would throw up.

"Ta-haey." The voice said again. A cup of steaming tea was lifted to his lips and he drank it gratefully, the pain in his head seeming to lessen as he did.

Smiling gratefully, he drifted into blackness again.

 

Kellwryn sighed as the stranger once again drifted back asleep. She didn't know how much longer she was going to be able to keep the tribal elders away. She was stunned when her brother and husband had drug the stranger- a rescued prisoner of war from their raid- into her hut, and more than a little annoyed when they disappeared once again for the gathering, leaving her to tend for him alone.

After four long days he had yet to show improvement. She was getting nervous.

"Can you hear me?" She said a final time, setting the cup down on the earthen floor. It was no use.

Where was he even from? That was the simple task that the men had imparted to her before they left on their journey. Simply discover which tribe the man had been taken from before he was powerful enough to struggle and get away. Factions within the alliance were always changing, and it wasn't prudent to harbor an enemy. Was he Inceni? Falgoii? Each piece of his dress seemed to say a different

thing....and the steel of the little dagger she had found tucked inside his boot was completely foreign ...too smooth and new for one of the Danube tribes...And his beard...

She shook her head in frustration, wishing he would awaken. She was certain that she could tell his tribe by the first words that he spoke.

Kellwryn went to change the bandages on his head. The bleeding had slowed, but not entirely stopped- it accounted for the loss of consciousness, at least. She hoped the man survived, it would be disappointing for his family to learn that he had died from a fall- never entering the fight for himself.

 

When Maximus opened his eyes again, his thoughts were clearer. Memories, fragments snatched from the events of the past days, came together in his mind. His cart had fallen off the cliff during the surprise attack. He had been rescued in the mistaken belief that he was a prisoner of war. His plan had worked.

Almost.

Where were the other scouts? And what had happened to his escort? He didn't recognize the village they had brought him too, and he didn't know why he had been left with a lone girl. His light eyes peered into the darkness, focusing on the soft curves of the body lying near him on the furs. No, he thought, truly seeing her for the first time. A woman.

Maximus listened to the sleeping noises of the woman and her son, who also shared the tent. The child was blocking the doorway, but the tent flap was opened and he could see into the night...into freedom.

No. He shook the thought away. He couldn't flee. He had to continue his mission. Surely there was a way to salvage it. The risks of failure were to significant not to try. Clearly the barbarians thought that he was one of them. He would simply have to gain their trust.

 

When Kellwryn rose the next morning, the stranger was already awake. He was staring at her, seeming to take her measure, and she shivered, grasping the knife she kept hidden beside her hand a little bit tighter, and then drawing the furs about her shoulders like a blanket. Once again she cursed her simpleton husband for leaving her all alone. Then she sighed and released the dagger. If the man was going to rape her, he could have done so during the night. Perhaps he was hungry, or merely bored. Besides, she thought with a faint smile on her lips, he was far from hard to look at, and her husband's feeble attempts at lovemaking left her so unfulfilled that she might not struggle.

She pushed the thought away.

"You're awake." She said, finally. The guest squinted, and tilted his head as though he didn't understand. "You're awake." She repeated in Inceni.

"Yes." he answered flatly, his accent indistinguishable.

So. One of the Western tribes. His monosyllabic replay had shot down her promise to state his origin

in a single word, but that was something, at least....a start.

"I am Kellwryn." She said, still holding his gaze boldly.

"Kellwryn." He answered, stumbling a bit over the lyrical name. He didn't offer his own.

"And you are...."

"A warrior." He said plainly.

Kellwryn felt her cheeks flush with anger. A warrior- a warrior too important and masculine to engage in conversation with a mere woman. She wondered if he would feel quite so superior in the filthy rags she had found him in, or without dinner in his stomach.

But his eyes seemed so kind! As if he hadn't meant it as an insult at all....Besides, she did not know much about the western tribes. Perhaps he had not meant it as an insult at all. Perhaps he was merely proud...or ashamed to find himself so ingloriously stolen from a battle. She had heard the tale of how

the man had been found. Not a single sword blow had been struck. It was only natural that he would want to reinforce his status.

"Are you hungry, warrior?" She asked, starting to rise.

"Yes." He answered quickly.

Not a talker, this one. Kellwryn thought as she rose to her feet. "I will prepare the meal." She said

again, her words unnaturally slow as she tried to use a non-native tongue. "Wait."

A nod.

Kellwryn dug in the baskets for her cooking pan and some meal. She sighed to note how close she was to the bottom of the little grain basket. Her father, and Taernin’s huts had been homes of plenty. She would never have worried about food for a guest- much less food for her children! She hoped that the visitor would understand that she meant no insult in the simple meal of fried cornmeal, berries, and dried meat.He did not seem to take offense, eating hungrily. "Thank you." He said, as he lowered his plate to the earthen floor.

Kellwryn blinked.

No man had ever told her “thank you” before.

 

6

 

Kellwryn tried to pass the rest of the day as normally as possible, struggling to ignore the fact that the stranger was always underfoot. He was constantly offering to help her! It was charming but, at the same time, unsettling. Didn't he know how unseemly it was? If any of the other women in the village saw him, they would whisper that he had taken her as a lover- *that* certainly wouldn't help her reputation.

Aside from his offers of help, the man was silent most of the day, sitting on his furs and watching her work.

It was nearly supper before they spoke.

"Your son?" He asked, looking around the room. "Gone?"

Why did he speak so tentatively...did he think that her command of the language was not strong enough to follow his words? Fighting back the angry flush that threatened her cheeks, Kellwryn answered. "He is in the forest, playing. He will return tonight."

"With friends?"

Her face fell. "No."

"You trust him alone?"

Why wouldn't he allow the subject to drop. His notice of her son was touching, but the questions were intrusive. Hadn't he noticed what her son was, just by looking at him? True- the Inceni were a darker people. The stranger's own hair was nearly as black as Menchin's. But his eyes were blue. Her son's were black. As black as the heart of the man who...who....she pushed the thought away.

"He is always alone." She answered tersely, spooning out a bowl of soup.

"Why?"

That was enough! With an angry sound, Kellwryn threw down her spoon. "How dare you insult me in my own house?" She said harshly. "I may be only a woman but my son-"

"Insult?" He said, his eyes so innocent that her temper faltered. Could it be true? Had he not guessed it? How could it be possible? She wished, feverently, that she had merely borne the slight and remained silent.

“He is...he is...the wolfblood.” She murmured, turning to the kettle to hide her brimming eyes. “Eat your soup.”

 

The days seemed to pass quickly. Maximus, still unsure of his language skills, said as little as possible, but his eyes were always open- trailing Kellwryn as she walked from room to room, and his ears were tuned for any scrap of information that she might carry his way... He had taken the name “Artrix”- a legendary hero that he remembered his nursemaid whispering stories about when he

was young. If Kellryn caught the reference, she didn’t show it.

Maximus was very cautious. It was difficult to keep his true self hidden, difficult to disguise his elemental Romanness.He had almost betrayed himself by cursing aloud when he discovered how close his men had been to breaking up a supply chain, only to be fooled by a band of decoys and led away while the precious supplies filtered through Roman lines.

Then, there was Kellwryn herself. Maximus hadn't been prepared for the differences in social customs, or modesty. He had realized, in a vague way, that the Germans lived in simple, one room dwellings, he was comfortable sleeping on soft furs only inches away from the woman and her son...but he had nearly died the first morning that he had found Kellwryn- completely and gloriously naked- scrubbing her legs with pine soap and a little bucket of water. He had panicked - his first instinct had been to run away, but the woman seemed so calm, so perfectly comfortable that he sensed this was the wrong reaction. So, instead, he had made a pretense of going back to sleep, shielding his eyes with his powerful forearm.

He had thought that the ruse had worked, only to find the rag thrust under his nose along with the soap and water with a mumbled "your turn".

Thank the Gods that Kellwryn had thought of something to do outside the hut.

Still, even after she left, an after-image of her snowy perfection remained burned into his consciousness. She was so strong. So self-assured. So...completely unlike the Roman women that he had known. Sighing as he drew the soap across his skin, Maximus pushed the thought from his

mind.

 

7

 

Maximus had only been in the village for a few days, but already he had noticed how differently Kellwryn and her son were treated.

It made no sense.

They were both so hardworking and kind. How could the woman possibly be blamed for the crime that had been committed against her body?

Maximus liked her very much- perhaps more than he admitted. He watched her as she worked, her strong, lithe muscles visible beneath the rough wool of her dress, her coppery hair sparkling in the sun, and her smile....so wide and honest- like the smile of a child, sincere and hiding nothing. Kellwryn seemed to like her guest as well. If her hospitality was somewhat strange to the Roman,

it was obvious that it was graciously given. Night after night she heaped food onto his plate leaving very little to her son, and even less for herself. He was given the softest pads for his bed, and his clothes- left in piles beside his bed at night- were always clean and smelling of pine when he awoke the next morning.

But it was more than beauty, or even goodness that attracted him to Kellwryn. There was a quiet, pained nobility in her every aspect...a brokenness that he longed to fix- that he felt he alone had been sent to repair. She had suffered so miserably at the hands of the Romans...perhaps he could offer her at least minimal reparations- even if she never knew...

 

Kellwryn picked up a basket just outside the door of the little hut and set off  through the woods. It was too late in the year for her to find much of value, but it would at least get her out of the house. She wished that the stranger would take her hint - the bow and arrows she laid out every morning by his pad - and hunt some fresh meat. Surely he was as tired as she was of venison jerky and rabbit stew! Thus far, however, he had been content to lie in his bed, and she was too polite a hostess to suggest that he tried something else.

The stranger. Kellwryn shivered when she thought of him. He always seemed to be watching her. Not that it was necessarily unpleasant - the man had a powerful sensuality that was impossible to ignore, but his almost constant silence was unnerving.

She returned home after about an hour- a few edible roots her only addition to their dwindling food stores. Hopefully Menchin would catch another rabbit. She looked around the little room for an occupation.

"The washing." She said simply, moving for a little pile of soiled rags.

"I'll come."

He had done it again. Every so often, since he had arrived, the stranger has insisted on assisting her with some meaningless little task. At first, she thought it was a romantic advance, but now she was not so sure. He seemed to want to pay her back for her kindness...or to compensate her for an evil she

didn't even know. She grunted, perhaps he just didn't want her to get out of his sight.

"Fine." She shrugged, and trundled away toward the stream, leaving him to carry the laundry in his powerful arms.

The riverbank was deserted. It would have been unusual if the men were at home- on those days, the mothers and daughters of the little village gathered here almost every day, even when they didn't have cleaning to attend to, just to pass the time in gossip and feminine company. However, the men were away, and the early winter air was too cool to be pleasant.

They had the river to themselves.

"When will the others return?"

Kellwryn frowned as she bent toward the water to retrieve a handful of smooth stones. "Return?" This was not the question she was expecting. She had anticipated that the man would want to join the others, not simply....wait. "Soon, I suppose." She held her look of displeasure as she wrapped the pebbles in the garment that she was cleaning and rubbed it against their curving contours, gently loosening the soil. "Before the snows."

He nodded.

"Why?"

No answer. Had he heard her? Sometimes, she thought he pretended that he didn't. He mimicked her actions of collecting rocks.

"No!" She stopped him. "Not the muddy ones!" She grabbed his wrist, almost letting go as the heat of his skin radiated into her own.

A breath.

"You have to clean them first...otherwise they won't help with the washing, will they?"

Slowly, she released his arm, nodding as he did as she has said.

"Men!" Kellwryn thought to herself with exasperation. Then again, most of them wouldn't bother to offer to help....

She knelt beside him quietly, continuing to work through her little bundle of fabric- first working the items free of stains, then rubbing them with the tart pine-scented soap she used on her own skin, and finally draping them over branches to dry.

She was twisting the last rag beneath the icy water when a sharp cry, followed by the heavy pounding of hoofbeats caused her to look up.

"Mother!" It was Menchin's voice. Kellwryn paled as she saw him running from the direction of the village, blood streaming from a gash on his temple and on his legs. "Mother!" It was almost a squeal- full of the terror that another summer of growing would make him ashamed to utter.

Beside her, she sensed the stranger stiffen as well.

"Menchin" Kellwryn dropped her washing and ran toward the boy, only to back away as, behind him, a dark, helmeted figure on horseback made her stomach twist in fear.

It was a Roman soldier.

Kellwryn felt her blood turn to ice, and for one long moment, she couldn't move. Memories came back to her in a flood...dark olive skin.....eyes as black as night....his hands along her side, under her skin, between her thighs...

"Move!"

The harsh, strangely accented cry of the stranger brought her back to reality, and she wheeled to the side as the rider crashed forward after her son. The boy ran past their guest, hemming himself between his attacker and the icy, raging water. Kellwryn watched helplessly as the broad, flat glint of steel caught in the morning sun, arching high over the horse and then swinging down toward her

son.

"Menchin!" She screamed, but the dull thud of cleaved flesh, and an echoing scream never came. There was, instead, a surprised grunt as the gladius was dashed off a thick stick. She opened her eyes in disbelief as the stranger roughly pushed Menchin up the soft mud of the bank and turned to face the attacker again.

Menchin ran to his mother's breast, again like a child as he huddled there in fear. A voice, deep in Kellwryn's mind, told her to take the boy and run. To go for home. To go for help. But she remained, watching in horrified fascination as the mismatched battle played itself out along the shore.

The soldier lunged again, but this time he was a little off balance, and he teetered forward. It was only slight- but enough for the other man to grab the collar of the Roman's leather armor and wrestle him to the ground. In a flash, the invader was on his feet, pushing forward in violent, jabbing stabs which the larger man struggled to avoid. He advanced, and then was caught off guard again with a roundhouse slap of the branch. And again, by a blow to the thigh. Still, the Roman pressed forward, slowly, but confidently- aware that he held an advantage.

The stranger hissed something at the attacker, and he faltered momentarily, lowering his sword a fraction of an inch. The other man lowered his guard as well.

And then, Kellwryn saw the look- it was the same look her own attacker had worn when she had ceased to struggle. Satisfaction. Almost smugness. I knew you would relent... It seemed to say. They always relent.

The stranger stepped forward, his face cautious, but relaxed.

And then, her stranger slipped.

Kellwryn watched him falling as though it were in slow motion. Her mind seemed to move forward through time very quickly- superimposing her own grim visions of the future. It would happen again. The hands.....

"No!!!!" In a flash, Kellwryn once again joined the battle. She scrambled for the bank, grabbing more of the stones that she had used for washing and, scooping the largest into her hand, hurling it at the Roman with all her might.

It glanced off the helmet, but left a dent- the man stumbled.

Another, this one drawing blood on the forearm.

"Stop!" The stranger called, struggling to his feet in the mire. His voice sounded high and strange. "Stop!"

"He's crazy", Kellwryn thought. We will be slain....And then, "No, he is a man, wanting the glory of the kill to himself". A man...a man like the Roman who had ravaged her....like the man who had fathered her son....The pebbles continued to fly, and the Roman attacker resumed his guard. The gladius seemed to fly aimlessly through the air, hoping to deflect the barrage, but Menchin had joined

in as well. The stranger stood nearby, motionless, his eyes wide.

"Stop."

Harder. More vicious. Drawing blood. Bringing the Roman to his knees....

Kellwryn inched closer, emboldened by her success. Blood seemed to pour from a thousand tiny wounds now, the soldier moaned and dropped his sword. It was the opening that Kellwryn needed. With a cry, she ran forward, scooping the weapon from the ground before the prone man could stop her. She held the heavy weapon in both hands, her breath ragged. There was a pause, and she met

the man's eyes. Black, just as she had expected.

They pleaded with her.

Spare my life.

Her own pale orbs echoed only revenge.

Give back mine.

The gladius entered his chest with the sound of splitting hollow fruit- an almost sucking noise that seemed to resonate in the pit of her stomach. She leaned on the blade as she pressed it through his ribs, piercing his back and burying at last in the soft mud beneath. His body twitched for a moment, his arms clawing at her as though there was still some way they could cheat her of the kill, and then he fell motionless, still staring at her with the flat, black eyes.

"Mother!" Menchin's voice seemed to echo from a long way off.

"Kellwryn."

It was not until the stranger's arms closed around her that she realized she was shaking- not until she tried to look at him that she realized tears had obscured her vision.

"It's over." He whispered, tenderly smoothing back her hair. "Over....."

 

8

 

Maximus held the shivering woman very close, trying to comfort away her fears. A thousand different emotions seemed to course through his veins, and he wasn't sure which one to give license to first- relief, that his masquerade had not been uncovered, shock at Kellwryn's rage, and impotent horror that he had simply stood by and watched as one of his own men was slain.

Antonius. A second lieutenant. Maximus knew him well-Promising, if a bit brash. He couldn't help himself from reaching forward and closing the poor boy's eyes. He had been so close to convincing him to simply walk away....

 

Maximus carried Kellwryn to a soft patch of grass and laid her down on top of some clean linens as she continued to cry.

When Maximus returned, Menchin was hovering over the dead man's body. His small fingers caressed the pressed metal of the armor.

"Is mother alright?" He asked, almost absently.

Maximus nodded. "She will be."

"Mama hates Romans."

Another nod.

"She hates them for me."

Maximus swallowed, noticing for the first time that there was as much fascination as horror in the boy's actions as he studied his attacker.

"I'm sure that's not true." He said quietly, patting the boy on the head. Guilt, like ice water dripping across his back siezed his senses.

Swallowing, Maximus looked back toward the village. "We have to get home."

"We can't."

"Can't?"

"The Romans...the Roman's burned the village...."

Maximus wanted to believe that the child had been wrong- but, as they slowly threaded through the dense forest, the tell-tale smell of acrid smoke began to filter through the trees. From a distance, he could hear the gentle sobbing of women and the terrified bleating of herd animals wandering through the trees.

The village was ashes. Only the skeletons of the sturdy birch huts remained. Children, women, and the elderly- the only people left to defend the encampment- sifted through the still smouldering rubble trying to save what they could.

Maximus felt his jaw clench in anger. They were helpless....

And then he stopped.

The village was hoarding supplies and arms for the Germanian army. In different circumstances, he might have ordered the raid himself.

He swallowed.

Before leaving, he had relayed to Quintus the general’s strict instructions to counter the relentless raiding with harsh reprisals.

He had ordered the raid himself.

"What happened?" The soft tones of Kellwryn's voice, now suddenly calm, drifted to his ears from behind him. She had taken the arm of a sobbing, silver headed-woman and was leading her toward a shady glen.

Slowly, the story spilled from the old woman's trembling lips. A warrior- pursued by the Romans during a botched attack- had come to the village for safety. He had underestimated his adversaries persistence- and their tracking skills. Inadvertently, the insignificant quarry he had led the hunters to the very prize they were seeking.

Realizing what they had found, they had systematically destroyed the little town.

"Was anyone hurt?" Maximus tried not to look too eager for an answer.

The old woman didn't answer, she merely pointed toward a figure near the edge of the woods and muttered a word Maximus didn't understand. It's inflection sounded like a curse.

Kellwryn followed the line of her finger. Her eyes settled on the corpse, and then she grew very pale.

The warrior.

She walked toward him slowly. Maximus saw that her body had begun to shake again.

"Do you know him?"He asked gently.

Kellwryn swallowed dryly, and then she met his question with eyes reflecting equal portions of fury and pain.

"Yes." She said lowly. "He was my husband."

Kellwryn felt as though the world had begun to spin so quickly that she would be thrown off toward the heavens. How could the Gods continue to play so mercilessly with her life? Galgrin was dead. She did not weep for him. She had wanted to lose him, wanted to be free of his clumsy, ridiculous inadequacy- oh, but not like this! He had compromised an entire village for his safety, and his

wound....shot in the back. He had been running away. Why couldn't the fool have died in battle? Even his death had brought her shame. Further trouble.

"We have to move him." Kellwryn said quickly, looping her hand under one bloody arm. "The river...."

"Kellwryn..." the stranger said at last. "Why-?"

"Stop!"

 

9

 

Kellwryn stiffened, and released her husband's arm. She turned.

Marran, one of the village elders was facing her now. He was a gnarled, hunch-backed man whose shrunken posture only seemed to add to the intensity of his presence- as though his power had expanded so greatly that it finally collapsed upon itself, concentrating into a tiny, yet potent form. He wore the bracelets and sashes of a Druid, indicating his status as one of the village priests.

"The wolf."

Kellwryn's eyes scanned frantically for her son.

"They come for him again."

"No."

"Another village...another death...."

"Menchin."She wanted to scream, "Where are you?" It was starting again...the murmurings among the village that her son was cursed.

They whispered, when they thought that Kellwryn wasn't listening, that he called to them- like an animal in the night howling for its kin- that he was the reason that the Romans came. She remembered, too well, how her beloved Taernin had ordered her to kill the child. Her betrothed had handed her the dagger, while the cord of life still pulsed between them, urging her to make the cut that would hide her dishonor from the world.

She had been too weak-too bewitched- to take the knife. She had looked at her lover sadly, begging him to understand- then held the child to her breast.

Mother's milk was the most sacred of all anointments. Menchin was acknowledged as her son, and her tribe. To kill him then would be unforgivable sin.

Kellwryn had hoped that Taernin would understand- that the world could understand that her son should not suffer for his beginnings. Taernin did not.

Her people did not. They looked into Menchin’s wise black eyes and saw only the wolf that hunted them.

They couldn't see that the boy walked alone only because no one would befriend him.

They couldn't admit that the Romans would continue to come on their own until all of the German peoples were subjugated.

"Menchin!" At last she saw him, poking a stick into the ashes of their home. She looked at him fondly, her eyes scanning the gash on his arm to see that the bleeding had stopped, then, running down the angle of his elbow toward his fingers.

Kellwryn gasped. She saw, at the same time as Marran what the child was holding in his hands.

"A HEX!" Hagrith bellowed, and Kellwryn lunged felt her stomach drop. She was caught between the desire to run to her child, and to throw herself on the elder, forcing him to silence. In no time, the attention of the entire village seemed to be on the boy, who dropped the little silver medal he had stripped from Antonius' corpse.

Marran ran forward, poking the grey metal as though it were a snake. "A Hex!" He cried again. "Her own husband bewitched into leading them to our doors...See! Do you not see now! He has called them here! He must be stopped. He must be killed."

The words seemed to be drowned out in the angry shouting of the other villagers.

They seemed to converge on the child at once, and Kellwryn shrieked as a heavy fist sent the child to the hard earth.

The stranger seemed equally concerned, he muscled through the clutch of attackers, trying to shield the child with his powerful frame.

"Justice!" Kellwryn cried helplessly against the wind. "Justice!" And at last. "I say in the name of my clan, Justice."

This seemed to appease the crowd somewhat, they backed away. Kellwryn could see her son, hunkering against the chest of the stranger, a thin line of blood trickling down his neck.

"He is not your clan." Marran said indignantly.

"Half-blood!" A member of the crowd cried out.

"Wolf-blood!"

The gathering threatened to degenerate into another round of angry shouts, so Kellwryn stepped

forward. "He *IS* my son, nursed at my breast for four seasons, kept at my hearth for 40 seasons more, and I claim justice in the name of my ancestors."

 

Maximus watched the little gathering with baited breaths. He didn't know what was going on, and he knew that it was a dangerous time to display his ignorance.

The villagers had murder in their eyes, and he prayed silently that Kellwryn's pleas for justice would be heard.

"A trial." Marran said solemnly, and there was a murmur of approval throughout the little assembly. Maximus thought, for a moment, that this would mean relief.

Then he saw the hard line of Kellwryn's lips.

The Germans did it differently, Maximus reflected grimly. They let their Gods decide. It would be a physical test...an unarmed fight against a bear, being thrown, weighted, into the river...his mind scrolled through a thousand other terrible possibilities.

"Horses." Marran pronounced solemnly.

Everyone seemed to shiver.

"Who will stand for it?" A woman near the outside of the circle asked. "The child himself?"

"The boys father!" Another answered.

An evil snickering filled the air. Kellwryn stepped forward, wrapping her arm protectively around her son. The laughter continued.

"I'll do it." Maximus said, surprising even himself as he stepped forward.

The crowd took a collective intake of breath, and then looked between the outsider and Menchin's mother.

The Roman's hands clenched and unclenched nervously by his side. Don't get involved...his mind warned, but it was too late now. He owed this to Kellwryn...to her son....Horses...he didn't know what it meant, but he knew the animals well. He would, at least, have a fighting chance at survival- the same could not be said for the boy.

Marran arched an eyebrow and looked at the startled woman. "Do you accept?"

Kellwryn's light eyes seemed to stare directly into Maximus' soul. They seemed to reflect a hundred different emotions at once. Wonder, Fear, Suspicion....

"Yes." She said at last, her eyes downcast.

Marran made a sound that might have signaled contempt. "Very well. Tonight then. Borran, Lassix," He gestured to two of the stronger looking old men who had not gone away to war. "Keep the child under guard. I don't want them to sneak away." He stabbed the metal with his stick again. "Or another trick."

Maximus spent the rest of the day helping the males of the village piece together temporary shelters for the night. Galgrin's body was simply drug to the river and dumped. His cowardice had earned nothing but contempt from his tribesmen- bewitched by the child or not.

It was a lucky break that Kellwryn had been washing her clothes when the fires were set- most of the villagers had lost everything they had. Kellwryn, at least, still had a basket, her fabric, some soap and a heavy pot. It was better than most.

By sunset, enough tiny structures had been built to house the tribe. It was a clear night- they would be cold, but protected. Huge bonfires were erected, and the tribesmen gamely contributed whatever they have salvaged into a bubbling kettle for a communal meal. They ate in silence. At last, when they were finished, Marran stood and walked to the center of the makeshift circle they had formed.

"It is time."

Already? No one had mentioned the trial for the rest of the day, and Maximus hoped against hope that it had been forgotten- or at least postponed until the village was rebuilt. From beside him, Maximus saw Kellwryn move forward, taking her son's hand. She stopped a few feet away and looked over her shoulder, a gesture which seemed to say "Are you coming?".

Uneasily, Maximus arose.

Kellwryn had changed her clothes. Although she had worked all day, she had the clean scent of a fresh bath, and he noticed some pale, golden flowers threaded through her hair. In the flickering firelight, she looked hauntingly beautiful.

She slipped her small hand in his- its cool form illogically filling him with heat- and led him toward the priest.

"Abuaaadaheeal..." Hagrith began to speak as though he were repeating an incantation. There was a moment of confusion as the legate's heart seized- wondering if he was supposed to know what was going on- then he saw an equal blankness on the faces of the others. It was a priestly language that no one was meant to understand.

He continued speaking, placing his hands first on Menchin and then on Maximus and Kellwryn's joined hands. Finally, the priest fell silent. Behind him, the Roman felt the crowd shift nervously.

"But..." An old woman began timidly.

"The end." Marran said sternly and walked away. Murmuring amongst themselves, the crowd dispersed. Where were they going? To prepare for the trial? It was so late...Maximus noted with curiosity that Kellwryn was still holding his hand.

"Is that all?" Maximus whispered as they entered the little hut that he had built for them.

She looked at her feet. "He wouldn't say the blessing..." Hurt rang clearly in her words. "I...I'm sorry...Perhaps your tribe..." She fell silent.

The little space seemed empty without Menchin, returned to guard on Marran's orders. There was no moon, and the interior of the hut was bathed in almost perfect blackness. There was nothing to do but sleep.

Maximus removed the fur cloak that was part of his disguise and spread it on the floor.

"Goodnight." He said quietly, stretching on the little pad he had made for himself.

Kellwryn took a breath as though she was going to say something, and then stopped.

There was a sound of further movement and, at last, he felt her settle down beside him. Her arms reached for his waist, and he reached instinctively forward, willing to comfort her after the arduous day.

The sensation that met his hands made them draw back as though he had touched fire.

Kellwryn twisted closer toward him, her bare breasts brushing his chest as her eyes squinting into the blackness for an outline of his face.

"Husband?" The word seemed to echo through the small space. "Is something wrong?"

 

10

 

All at once, the world seemed to stop. Maximus had to force himself to breath. Husband. The pieces suddenly fell into place. Kellwryn had claimed justice for her son under the name of her clan. Only a member of her clan could stand for him...The flowers...the half-whispered words of the Druids. He remembered how the man had touched their joined hands...and then spoken an incantation over

Menchin- he must be the boy's father now...

Maximus was jolted from his thoughts by Kellwryn's hand on his thigh. Her touch was tentative, but her intentions were clear. Her fingers snaked inside of the thin hide covering that passed for undergarments among the tribesmen, and Maximus once again fought the urge to buck away.

He tried to ignore the electric closeness of her skin. Tried to forget the lovely, flawless body pressed against him- shrouded by the thick blackness of the night. Until this moment, Kellwryn had never seemed to notice him. That had made it far easier to appreciate her from an aesthetic perspective.

Now....

Kellwryn leaned forward again, sliding one of her palms across his chest.

The Roman felt his breathing speed. This couldn't be happening. I shouldn't.... His laws were not her laws. He already had a wife! He had to stop her....but how? What could he say that would not betray his ignorance of her customs and her laws? Surely she assumed that he had known what he was getting into...surely everyone....

Maximus felt every muscle in his body convulse simultaneously as his "wife's" hands closed around his manhood, he quickly swiped her hand away, hoping that the action had been fast enough to hide the faint stirring of desire that her advances were kindling.

"Kellwryn, no."

"Artrix?" She said his name lightly, he shivered- half-thinking that she had forgotten. "You are rejecting me?"

Her bluntness was something that the soldier was not prepared for, and the grip that he continued to hold onto her hand loosened slightly.

He put his hand behind her neck, holding her gingerly, but tenderly apart from his form. "I want to help you Kellwryn. I want to help Menchin. We don't have to..."

"How can we be married if we do not join?" She asked earnestly.

Maximus took another shuddering breath, discerning at once that the act itself had religious significance.

"No one will know...."He murmured.

"I will know." He thought he could feel the heat in her cheeks. "My ancestors will know. They will not come to an outsider..."

She turned away, the anger in the action making the encounter even more heated.

In spite of his self-admonitions, the Roman felt his body reacting to his bride. His erection strained against its thin hide covering, longing to sample the delicate flesh that lingered only inches away.

"Kellwryn..." He fought to maintain control.

"Go." Her voice was firm, but husky at the same time. "You have shamed me."

There was anger in the voice but...regret as well. She had wanted him.

The revelation sent a fresh jolt of desire along his spine. How well she had  hidden it!

"No." He told himself again and again. "No. No. No." He tried to concentrate on the images of his wife. Of the hillsides around their home...but the vision of waving wheat, bathed in the autumn sun only melted into Kellwryn's own fair locks.

No.

He turned away from the German woman, lying on his back, taking gulping breaths of air. She turned toward him again, noting the change, but remained silent. He would be still. He would go to sleep he would....

Maximus made a little cry as Kellwryn's hands once again seized his masculine flesh.

"You don't want me?" Her voice was thick with irony.

"Not like this..." Maximus wanted to scream. Not now. She was so lovely. So kind. So helpless....so untamed and unlike anyone he had ever known- she could not ask him to betray the woman that he loved..

But she was right. He could not deny her without betraying his secret....without betraying her trust.

Maximus laid completely still, trying to send his thought to another place, praying that it would be quick...that his guilt would be assuaged by the fact that he had not wanted it...had not helped....But touching Kellwryn and thinking of anything else was impossible...when she slid her knees against his hips, he could not help but take her into his arms.....

The soft heat of Kellwryn’s thigh felt like a knife being drawn against his skin, the sensation was so acute that it was almost painful, and his breath came out in a long, slow shudder....The other knee was moved in place, and he closed his eyes, accepting what was to come- trying desperately to deny the chill of excitement which seemed to reverberate to his very core.... but Kellwryn remained still. He opened his eyes again, but they were useless in the pitched blackness.

After the long hesitation, the touch of Kellwryn’s hand sent another shock through his body. He had assumed that her arms were at her side...or perhaps above his shoulders bracing her small form, but they lighted first upon his neck, then smoothing downward, along the smooth contours of his chest. The fingertips moved slowly- memorizing the prominences and ridges of his form. With her index finger, she traced each rib, beginning at his sternum, downward to the tender, untouched flesh of his side, drawing a sigh from deep in his lungs. She leaned forward, the tickling tendrils of her hair alighting first, causing his muscles to tense in guard against yet another unanticipated touch. Another

sound- low and indistinguishable, rushed from his throat as he felt the soft swells of her lips brush lightly against his collarbone. There was moisture on her cheeks. Tears, he realized with a start. Almost subconsciously, he brought his arms around her back.

Her skin was warm, and almost downy. There was a definition to the sinews that lurked beneath its surface- powerful, and yet, not unfeminine. They attested to her years of hard work. To her prowess as a fighter. To her strength.

Forgetting, for a moment, that he was resisting her advance, Maximus passed his finger along her spine, resting his broad palm on the rounded swell of her bottom and caressing it lightly. He inhaled deeply of her scent- pine and earth and smoke- and shifted his weight as another jolt of desire coursed through him. Maximus reached forward in the darkness, at first finding only air, but finally reaching Kellwryn’s cheek. He brushed away the moisture from her eyes, feeling her blink in surprise at the tenderness of the gesture.

The woman leaned forward again, her hair and the soft mounds of her breasts pressing into him. There was another kiss- at first on his cheeks, and then moving purposely toward his mouth, at last connecting it with her own. The kiss was gentle at first- no more than a whispering touch. The shallow ridges creating a tingling friction as they brushed. Kellwryn drew partially away, no longer touching, but remaining so close that he could feel her breath on his skin, and then she pressed forward again. Kneading their mouths together, and then, tentatively licking his lips, she pressed his mouth open with her tongue. Maximus received her almost instinctively, stealing her breath as he

sucked her deeper.

Beneath Maximus’ hands, the German woman’s hips arched forward. He crushed her toward him, pressing her against his swollen flesh. Frantic now, Kellwryn’s fingers tore at the hide covering that separated them. She exposed him, and then, slicking her fingers with her own moist heat, slid her fingers around his shaft once more, placing pressure on the soft underside and back.

With a low moan of pleasure, the legatus pressed his head backwards into the soft dirt of the hut’s floor, and abandoned himself to her assault. He moved purposefully to receive his pleasure. Kellwryn answered him by loosening her grip as he pressed into her, and tightening as he pulled away. Abandoning his determination to submit reluctantly, Maximus’ hips rocked eagerly in time with

her movements. Again, Kellwryn arched toward him. Then, with a frustrated sigh, she slid her knee between his legs, pressing her sensitive flesh against his body, seeking her own pleasure as she joined his feral rhythm. Her breath was coming in jagged, gasping breaths now, and though he could not see her, Maximus’ imagination filled in the erotic vision of her wild hair fanning around her shoulders... her flushed cheeks...her passion-strained face....

Maximus growled as he stilled Kellwryn’s fingers, and in a motion so sudden that she did not have time to resist, transposed their positions, rolling her back onto the earthen floor. He slid his hand behind her neck, drawing her forward into a crushing kiss and then entered her with a ferocity that left her breathless. The incredible fullness he brought only made her arch against him more strongly, and her sheath tightened around the member, bringing them both to a moment of such stunning pleasure that they were afraid to move, afraid to breath....until at last the tension was broken. The Roman slid backwards slightly, and then buried himself again into her giving flesh.

Kellwryn’s slender legs twined themselves around his hips. She pushed toward him, urging him to linger inside her...her nerves weeping with each tentative withdrawal. Each thrust was marked by the tensing of her fingernails into his back, like tiny daggers they bit into his skin, the pain seeming to be his only tether to consciousness. At last, Maximus felt the German trembling beneath him. Her head twisted in the dirt as she found her release, crying out in strange tongues that he could not decipher, seemingly suddenly foreign, exotic, dangerous....

Maximus sucked in his breath as a searing point of heat began in the pit of his stomach. With an unexpected suddenness, the sensation spread rapidly throughout his veins. The exquisite sense of pleasure burning him with its intensity. He slung to his barbarian bride, shuddering in climax, as his final thrust driving deeply into Kellwryn’s sex and his seed rushed between her thighs.

Passion spent, the Roman commander collapsed, his rushing blood and pounding heartbeat drowning out Kellwryn’s tentative sound of protest. At last, she wriggled from beneath his chest, freeing herself from the crushing pleasure, but she did not move away, carefully preserving the link of their bodies as his manhood softened within her.

“Artrix.” She murmured, threading her fingers possessively through his hair. She kissed his ear, whispering huskily as though it were a secret not even he should know. “I desired you...”

Maximus shivered, awed by her unabashed confession of lust. “I wanted you too...” there was no longer any point in denial. Pleased, Kellwryn burrowed against his chest and closed her eyes, the labored breathing of her passion dwindling into the deep, even rhythm of sleep.

 

When the legatus awoke, hours later, the sun had only begun its course across the sky. Pale light filtered through the open weave of the crude dwelling, and at soft, but constant breeze chilled the air. Almost instinctively, Maximus tightened his arm around his bride.

His arm.

Even in the pale light, the harsh, black squares of S.P.Q.R. stood in stark contrast with his skin. He covered it quickly, the sudden movement rousing Kellwryn from her sleep. Her blue eyes fluttered open reluctantly and then, meeting his eyes, she smiled shyly.

“Husband.” she greeted him, placing a careful emphasis on the word, as though she loved its feel on her lips. She smiled playfully. Then, abruptly, her smile fell. “It is nearly dawn...they will be here for you soon...”

Maximus nodded grimly, still unsure as to what was in store. “Horses?” He said faintly, hoping to urge her into conversation. “How is it done....in this village?”

“How could they do it?” Her lips seemed to tighten as she spoke. “They will take  you to the oaks and....” her voice trailed off. She squeezed him tightly.

Clearly, Kellwryn was unwilling- or unable- to offer more advice. He tilted his head downward and comforted her with a soft kiss- he would know soon enough.

 

11

 

Just after dawn, Marran and the elders arrived at the tent.

“You have chosen your champion?” They asked formally.

“I choose my husband.” Kellwryn said, and Maximus blushed at the fierce pride in her voice. “He will stand for our son.”

Marran nodded his head and led the pair toward the center of the village. Menchin was there already. He looked tired- Maximus could see tears drying on his face. He moved to run toward his mother, but thick ropes held him back.

Kellwryn went to him instead, carefully cataloguing him for any new cuts or bruises, relieved to see that, for now, the invocation of her clan had protected him for harm.

“The oaks.” Hagrith said solemnly. The villagers fell into a slim column behind their priest.

Maximus clenched and unclenched his hands nervously wishing, desperately, that he knew what was going on. At last they reached a small clearing of trees. A patch of bald grass in the center signaled that this was the point where the legatus would meet his fate.

“Lassix.” Hagrith called to his assistant, and the Roman sucked in his breath as the trees parted and four warriors struggled forward with the largest horse that he had ever seen. The animal was a giant. The stallion didn’t struggle against the lead rope, but it was clear that he considered the handlers a forbearance he was not required to withstand- a single rear of the powerful forelegs could

pound the men to dust. The men gestured for Maximus to step forward and he started to obey, before Kellwryn’s hand stopped him. She leaned forward, her tall frame standing her nearly eye to eye with his own, and kissed him deeply.

“I have prayed for you, husband.” She whispered, her eyes filled with her desire to give him comfort. “My fathers will be with you.”

He nodded and, at last, walked away. The men bound Maximus’ hands tightly with the rope and then, working very slowly to avoid the hindquarters of the horse, tied it to the make-shift halter around the animals neck. Maximus felt his throat fall to his stomach. The rope was only an armspan long- if he couldn’t manage to ride the horse, he would be trampled...The large beast bent forward to chew at a piece of grass while the warriors continued their word. Cautiously, they wove another rope into the halter, this was a bit longer, and tied around the lower branches of a nearby tree. The largest of the men checked that the rope was secure, and then nodded before moving to safety.

The was a sound in the direction of the village, and Maximus and the stallion both looked up at the same instant. His heart sank. It was a mare, a beautiful roan colored animal as docile-looking as the animal behind him was fierce.- and from the interested whinny of the horse behind him, he could guess that she was in season. The stallion took a few strides forward, and Maximus moved with him,

careful to hold the rope off the ground to avoid blocking his way. There was a murmur among the assembled villagers, and the sound of more rustling leaves behind him. The legatus turned.

And then all Hell broke loose.

It was another stallion, even larger than the one Maximus was tied to, smoke grey that deepened to black along its forelegs. The Roman, and the first horse, now stood directly between the newcomer and the mare. He did not need to draw on his knowledge of horses to anticipate what would happen next.

The first horse wheeled, turning so fast that the jerk on the rope that tied them together nearly jerked the Spaniard’s arms from their socket. He stumbled, nearly off balance, but recovered in enough time to rush forward beside the heavy hooves.

The stallions circled each other, the warmth of their breath rising in seamy bursts through the cold autumn air. Maximus felt the hair on the back of his neck rise on end as the two enormous animals seemed to close in around him like a collapsing wall. The grey stamped his hooves angrily on the ground, snorting a threat, and the black horse tossed its head in an equally threatening manner.

For a few short moments, it was a face-off....and then the grey began to charge.

Maximus moved quickly, but could not anticipate that the black horse would rear on its hid legs. The rope yanked painfully at his wrists, nearly lifting him on the ground, and he slid on the soft earth, falling backwards. There was a cry of panic from the crowd- Kellwryn, he thought distantly- but he recovered, rolling to his side just before the heavy hooves crushed down on his shoulder.

The grey advanced again, and this time the black made an answering charge, rearing again, in panic as the rope that bound it to the tree halted its progress. Maximus reeled as the edge of an ebony hoof- seeking the neck of the rival stallion- glanced across his forehead. He could feel warm blood oozing

from his temple, and reeled for a moment, before he regained his balance. The grey had met it’s mark, its sharp feet rained down on the disadvantaged animal. Bloody gashes were left in their wake, and the black animal seemed unsteady, as though in shock. It stamped its feet impotently and snorted another threat.

Maximus braced for the third charge, this time from the left, raising his wrists in a futile effort to avoid getting the rope tangled in the attacker’s feet, but it was no use. The rope that bound his hands, was pulled downward by the untethered horse, jerking the inky stallion’s head to the ground, and throwing Maximus once again to his knees.

Maximus cried out in pain as another footfall connected with his flesh, and he felt a crushing weight against his biceps. Was his arm broken? He gritted his teeth, and pushed the thought away, concentrating only on survival. With supreme effort, he climbed to his feet again, quickly scanning the scene.

Both horses were bloody now, regarding each other warily as they prepared for another clash. Behind them both, the mare made sounds of nervousness. Maximus didn’t want to think of what would happen if she too entered the fray. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then began to move very purposefully, ignoring everything around him but the task he must complete. It was a tactic he

had learned in battle- one that had saved his life on many occasions- and he prayed it would not fail him now...

He had to mount the horse. Perhaps then he could work the harness off its head and move them both to safety. Clawing at the mud-matted mane of the beast, Maximus tried to hoist himself onto the creature’s back.

The anger of the stallion seemed to explode, at once, into uncontrolled rage. It bucked backwards, throwing Maximus against the tree. The legatus recovered quickly, reaching for a low branch, and using it to leverage himself onto the creature’s back. Behind him, the villagers murmured, but he did not divert his attention, it took all his concentration to retain his seat- the horse clearly was unbroken- and he braced for another assault from the grey.

The black stallion had turned now, kicking the other horse with its hindlegs while it tried to unseat Maximus from its back, and it was difficult for the general to hold onto the harness, while looking over his shoulder to dodge the other animal’s attack. He had finally steadied his mount, and began turning him forward when the warrior guarding the mare- perhaps believing that the Gods were

about to render a verdict he found unjust- released the mare, slapping her flank and sending her to the midst of the fight.

The next few moments seemed to pass in slow-motion. Maximus saw both stallions turn, saw the flash of the frightened Roan as she crashed into the woods, heard the branch begin to break, felt the horse beneath him rear, struggled to maintain his seat....and then there was pain- blurs of green and brown as the earth and plants were drug beneath his body...

.... and then nothing.

 

12

 

“Artrix? Artrix?”

Maximus came suddenly awake, the pain that greeted his return to consciousness so overwhelming that he gasped aloud.

“Artrix!” Kellwryn said again. He felt the cool brush of her lips on his cheek, the contrast with the pain of the rest of the body filling the platonic gesture with a palpable heat. “You survived!”

He managed only a moan in response. What had happened? His mind refused to tell him. He remembered falling...

“You landed on the branch.” Kellwryn supplied, anticipating his thoughts. It carried you to safety until the harness broke.”

Another moan.

“The Gods have saved you....my ancestors have saved you.” She hesitated, and then leaned forward, tenderly brushing his blood-matted hair away from his forehead. “*You* have saved my son.”

That, at least, garnered a pained smile. Kellwryn dabbed something cool against his shoulder, momentarily easing the pain.

“Mmrrrrmmmmm.” Maximus groaned as his respite was cut short- Kellwryn removed the poultice and laid a strip of clean cloth over his wound.

“Is that all you can say?” She laughed. In spite of her husband’s pain, her face was radiant with happiness.

Maximus gritted his teeth to speak, trying to struggle to a sitting position. “I just got trampled by a horse. I don’t have to talk.”

Kellwryn smiled. She laid the soothing compress back against his skin and then nestled beside him. “Fair enough.” She offered him a piece of bark. “Chew this.” She said sternly. “It will help with the pain.”

Maximus did as he was told, grimacing at the bitter taste of the remedy, but pleasantly surprised when the tingling it caused in his mouth slowly spread to the rest of his body, lessening the pain. “Where am I?” He asked, when the assault on his senses had eased enough to permit speaking.

“In the woods..I didn’t want to move you until I was certain that nothing was broken..”

“Menchin?” he said anxiously.

“Playing by himself. They let him go.”

“But someone might....” He tried to sit up, but Kellwryn pushed him back down.

“He is safe. You have passed the trial. No one would defy the judgement when the Gods themselves have spoken.”

Maximus was still unsure- what if someone tried to take justice in their own hands and dispatch the boy with an unfortunate “accident”?- but Kellwryn seemed convinced and Maximus was too weary and battered to protest.

“Where is everyone?”

“They left hours ago...they spoke with you...do you remember?”

Maximus shook his head in the negative, and Kellwryn smiled again. “It’s no matter...Quiet now, you need your rest.”

Maximus nodded. His mind still hazy with pain, he complied drifting into a dreamless sleep.

When Maximus awoke again, he was lying on his furs inside the hut. Kellwryn had  improved the structure during the day- covering the open weave with mud and leaves to keep the wind at bay. The opening was covered by one of the hides she had saved from her laundry, blocking out the firelight and noise of the devastated village, and conserving heat.

“Are you awake at last?” Kellwryn asked gently, hurrying to his side as soon as she heard him move.

“Mrrrmph...” Maximus gritted his teeth as he moved to sit up. In truth, he was feeling better, but his shoulder still throbbed where he had been trampled by the horse, and portions of the skin on his back were raw from having been drug on the ground.

Kellwryn made a sympathetic sound and kissed his cheek, offering a cup of broth, and some more of the mysterious, pain-relieving bark. Her light eyes were full of sympathy...full of thanks for what he had done.

“Mrrrmph...” he murmured again, inclining his chin and coaxing her into a kiss. Kellwryn obliged the request, softly brushing his lips-the only portion of his body that didn’t seem to be battered and bruised- with her own. “Feeling better?”

“Sore.”

Kellwryn reached for his hand and urged him to his feet. “Come....I know what will make it better....” intrigued, he followed her into the night.

Maximus followed Kellwryn through the dark village. Their hands threaded together, they slid past the other makeshift huts of the and into the edge of the forest.

The night was very cool and still. The constant thrumming of insects in the trees above was the only sound as they passed between the trunks of ancient trees. It was almost as black as the night before- their path lit only by starlight but Kellwryn seemed to know her way. Her steps never faltered as he

led her past the river, up a hillside to a thicket of ferns and spindly trees.

Kellwryn pulled back a branch, and Maximus was startled as a puff of steam lifted into the night air. His guide seemed to have anticipated the reaction.

"It's alright." She assured him. "It is a blessed place....it will make you better."

Maximus frowned, confused by the cryptic explanation, but he continued to follow her.

Just behind the little clump of vegetation was a small crater filled with water.

It's surface was agitated by little bubbles that fizzed to the surface, but it seemed devoid of life.

"It's hot." Kellwryn informed him, excited.

Maximus merely stared.

"--All the time...even in winter...." The German urged him forward. "Come on...."

She released his hand, and began to strip away her clothes, draping them across a low lying branch. Kellwryn shivered miserably as she stepped anxiously toward the water's edge.

"Are you sure that it is safe?" Maximus asked, nervously. A hot spring- he had run across them on his travels. Some were so hot that they could scald.

Kellwryn dipped her toe in cautiously. "It's fine..."Very slowly, she eased herself downward. "Join me."

Losing the last of his resistance, The Roman complied, removing his garments. He bent forward,

testing the water for himself. Finding, as Kellwryn had promised, that the water was pleasantly warm. He jumped in beside her.

At first, the water stung his skin, but after a moment, it felt like heaven. A soothing effervescence flowed through the liquid, massaging his aching skin. Maximus leaned his head back against the edge of the pool.

"Feel better?"

He reverted to monosyllables again. "MMMmmmmm"

For a few moments they were still, luxuriating in the pleasantness of their surroundings, but after a while, Kellwryn moved toward her mate, laying her head against his shoulder.

"I didn't thank you." She said softly.

"You didn't need to,"

"I...." She bit her tongue, hesitating for a moment. She didn't want to ruin the tranquility of the moment, but there was something that she had to know. "Why did you do it?"

"Accept the challenge?"

"Save Menchin." She turned away. "Don't you believe that he was cursed as well?"

Maximus shook his head. "With you as his mother?" but, seeing that the joke did not evoke the smile that he desired, he softened his look. "I think that he is a little boy, who couldn't help the circumstances of his birth....and who is lucky to have such a mother." He kissed the top of her head.

"You aren't worried then?"

"Worried?"

"That our children will be....tainted."

Our children. Maximus swallowed, his thoughts momentarily returning to his wife in Hispania, to his life far away.

"Galgrin thought so," Kellwryn continued when he did not answer. "He said that he wasn't afraid, but he spilled his seed on my thighs so that he wouldn't make me pregnant."

Maximus's jaw clenched.

"Galgrin was an idiot." Maximus said tersely.

Kellwryn smiled in agreement, and then she reached forward, cupping his chin in her hands. "You are not." She whispered, leaning forward to kiss the end of his nose. "You are wise...." She kissed his cheek. "strong..." his shoulder. "...brave...." at last they lighted on his neck, lingering in the hollow between his ear and jaw.

The legatus sighed in appreciation, and ran his hand upward along her damp back, combing his fingers through her hair, Moving from his neck, to his ear, Kellwryn drew the little flap of flesh between

her lips, biting it playfully, and then tracing her tongue along the ridges that delineated the feature. Maximus encouraged the action, the flat palm of his hand resting on her bottom and pushing her forward against his own flesh.

Desire had not yet awakened his manhood, but it stirred at Kellwryn's touch. She seemed to sense the slight movement, rocking her hips forward, and rubbing sensuously against him. She used one hand to cradle her lover's neck to her face, but let the other trail along his spine, stopping on his hips to demand an answering pressure.

At last Kellwryn's lips drew away, and she stared up at Maximus tenderly, her lovely features only barely visible in the starlight that filtered through the trees. He did not need to read her light eyes to know that she was hungry for him again....her need radiated clearly in the night.

Using his free hand to stroke her cheek, the Roman leaned forward again, kissing her gently before he began to explore the smooth contours of Kellwryn's breasts only hastily sampled the night before, They were heavy and round, perfectly formed in spite of the fact that they had already suckled a child. Maximus cupped one in his fingers, memorizing heaviness and shape as he caressed the delicate skin with his fingertips.

"Beautiful..." He murmured, leaning forward to kiss her.

Kellwryn arched eagerly into the embrace, her lips parting slightly to admit his tongue. He teased her first, licking lightly across her lips, but then he thrust inside her, hinting at assault he soon would make.

Kellwryn accepted him eagerly, pressing forward more urgently. Maximus suppressed a little moan of delight at the friction the action produced. Her subtle gyrations had achieved their desired effect, he was fully erect now, throbbing with his want for her.

"Kellwryn...." abandoning the breasts, Maximus placed his other hand on her buttocks and ground her against him again. She closed her eyes, a sultry smile on her lips.

"Take me." She whispered, her voice almost pleading. "I don't want to wait."

With a sound of equal parts pleasure and relief, Maximus drew her into her arms, lifting her easily with the buoyancy of the water, and then brought her down around his shaft, the steely member filling her in a single swift stroke.

Kellwryn's breath left in a shudder as his body stretched her to her limits. The dual sensations of fullness and heat seemed almost overwhelming. "Artrix.. " she said in a rasping whisper, then she twined her legs around his hips, trying to push upwards against him.

Maximus's hands seemed to move of their own accords, and both the lovers sighed in unison as they lifted her up and away from his body, drawing her back at the last possible instant, and then driving into her once more. Each thrust seemed faster and more desperate in the first...

"Like this...." Kellwryn murmured, arching her hips forward so that her most sensitive flesh could slide against his skin. Maximus felt his body shudder as he she closed her eyes in pleasure. "More...." She whispered.

Of course, Maximus obeyed....

Turning slightly, so that the edge of the pool could hold Kellwryn's balance, Maximus let his hand slide between them, his fingers lingered on his own swollen flesh, sliding upwards along the shaft to the point where their bodies joined.

He sighed in satisfaction as he felt himself claim her, the pressure of his fingertips adding to the sensation...and then he did the same for Kellwryn, pushing his fingertips between her most delicate folds, finding the core of her femininity and clasping it gently between his finger and thumb.

The reaction from Kellwryn was electric- as though a jolt of pure energy had gone through her body, she stiffened, and then cried out, the fierce German curse carrying eerily on the wind. Her face was paralyzed with sensation- her lower lip hanging open, and her yes tightly shut- Maximus felt another shudder of pleasure course through his frame from the vision of her passion claimed face.

Slowly, the sensations faded, and Kellwryn slumped forward against his chest- spent, but unsated..

"More." She whispered, her passion-slaked voice almost a challenge. Maximus answered by hauling her out of the water, and rolling her forward onto the skins.

There was a sigh of regret at their connection was severed, but it was quickly regained, pinning Kellwryn on her stomach, Maximus pushing into her once more. She was tighter now, the narrow walls of her sheath providing almost unbearable pressure as their feral rhythm began anew.

Kellwryn was still unrecovered from her release. She lay beneath him, the soft swells of her bottom grinding into his stomach as he pressed down, but Maximus was too hungry to wait for her to join him again. He planted one knee firmly in the earth, and then slid his other leg along her thigh, angling himself to achieve the maximum friction, melting into the damp heat of her body, "Oh...." When release came, at last, it began in the pit of his stomach, moving forward along his shaft, finally spilling deep within Kellwryn's womb.

He tightened his arms around her, the bone-deep satisfaction robbing him of speech, but wanting to thank her for the numbing pleasure that she had brought.......

“Oh.” Kellwryn echoed, rolling forward to bestow a kiss and smile.”Oh, my husband, I love you so much...”

 

13

 

" Artrix! Wake up!" Maximus was awakened by Menchin's excited whisper. "Wake up! They're here!" The legatus sat up slowly, reaching almost instinctively for Kellwryn beside him in the darkness. She was gone.

"Wake up. Wake up."

"I'm awake." His voice was a bit too gruff and the boy deflated quickly, his dark eyes trailing the floor. "Who is here?" Maximus asked, more kindly.

"The warriors. They're here. Are you going with them?"

"With them where?"

"To the council, of course."

Maximus' heart hammered in his chest. The council. The object of his original planning. The end of his mission. Would he obtain the information that he sought at last? He scanned the hut once again for Kellwryn.....And what would happen when his task was complete?

Menchin skipped impatiently from foot to foot, communicating that the men should not be kept waiting, and so Maximus struggled to his feet. The effects of the hot spring had worn away, and the raw skin on his forearms and chest sang with pain at every movement.

He stepped outside.

Three burly men were waiting there, clad in thick skins and bulky arms. Their faces were those of veteran warriors- wrinkled and darkened by the sun, their bright blue eyes peeking out like pieces of sky from beneath wild clouds of eyebrows. Their chins and necks were unshaved, their bushy beards all but obscuring their mouths. They seemed to Maximus to be near caricatures of the barbarians he had pictured when he first joined the legions in the north.

"Artrix, husband of Kellwryn." The middle man, taller and darker than the other two, spoke.

Maximus nodded. "I am."

"We come to invite you to council...." The man met his eyes in a challenge. "We hear that you are a brave warrior."

"I hope that it is so." Maximus said evenly.

The man made a hrmphing sound that could have meant almost anything, then he shrugged. "Come."

Maximus swallowed. Somehow, he had expected more time. More warning. After so many weeks of waiting, time seemed suddenly to have sped up so that all the things that he had been hoping for and dreading- were upon him at once. He had anticipated a chance, at least, to say goodbye to Kellwryn, but she was nowhere to be found.

The men stared at him curiously, and Maximus could sense that he was expected to do something, and so he nodded at Menchin, hoping that the boy could offer some assistance. "I'll get the horse." He said, scurrying away in excitement.

"My arms." Maximus said simply, and the center man tilted his head in a manner that gave the Roman leave to return inside the hut to collect his weapons.

Maximus ducked his head and returned inside, knowing without looking where the heavy sword they had stripped from Galgrin's body and the shield of Kellwryn's father was kept. Still, he moved very slowly, deliberately extending the amount of time that he could spend inside the tiny, earth-floored room. He felt, almost as a physical blow, the painful certainty that this would be his last time within its walls. A few short months ago, the thought of happiness within such a crude dwelling- as part of such an uncivilized life- would have been laughable...but now.... drawing his strength together, Maximus collected his equipment and returned outside.

Almost at the same instant, Menchin returned with the horse.

"Tell your mother...." Maximus began, speaking to the boy, but his voice faltered. Tell his mother what? That he was gone away never to return. That he would think of her occasionally, but that she should go on with her life? That he loved her.....?

Maximus' stomach lurched at the final thought. Never before had he sensed the danger in his actions, but now, facing the loss of his wild-haired barbarian forever, he knew that his feelings could only have one name.

Kellwryn....

The name was on the edge of his lips as he rode, behind the band of other, out of the village. He was ready to shout it at the slightest flash of her red hair among the trees, but he did not see her. Her name, and his love, remained unspoken.

 

14

 

"Did he take the Sword?"

"Yes, mama."

"And the stallion?"

"Yes mama."

"The stocky one. The one that we traded for in the spring."

"Yes mama."

Menchin looked at his mother worriedly. There was something dark in her expression that he could not read. He had expected her to be happy that Artrix had joined the warriors at last...she had seemed so proud this morning at sunrise when they had appeared on the edge of the village...but then she had

disappeared, professing business in the edge of the woods, and had not returned until the lighting of the fires at night.

Kellwryn tousled her son's hair, hoping to soothe away his uncertainty. How could she explain to him the painful prospect of finding herself alone once more? It seemed that the Gods had meant to taunt her first by taking away her hope when Taernin had cast her aside, then by stripping away her dignity in joining her to the imbecilic Galgrin, and finally, most cruelly of all, robbing her of peace: exposing her to possibilities of tenderness and safety that a man might offer and then drawing it just as quickly away. She had hoped that not watching him go would make the pain easier to bear, but it had only exacerbated it. All day, through her long solitary walk amidst the forest, she had thought of nothing but his soft voice and kind eyes. She longed for a touch, even if in parting.

Kellwryn did not doubt that Artrix was an able warrior- he had proved as much in his defense of Menchin, but she also did not doubt the might of the Roman legions. Germanic arrogance could not overpower ballistas and armor and steel, no matter how courageous the men. She had long ago given up hope that her people would win the war. She prayed now only that they could reach a dignified point of surrender that they would struggle on a bit longer, so that she would not live to see her own son in bondage, but in her heart, she feared even that was too much to ask. The end of the war was not coming soon.

Would Artrix be sacrificed as well to the Roman wolves?

"Did he take the long sword?" Kellwryn asked, a new thought crossing her mind.

"The tempered one?"

Menchin considered the question. "No, mama....It was the short sword,

Galgrin's."

Relief washed over her features as, at last, a release for her misery presented itself. "The short sword? That will never do. Bring the other horse, Menchin."

"Where are you going mama?"

"To the camp." She shivered at the boldness of what she planned to do. "Artrix cannot fight without a proper weapon.”

Her son regarded her curiously, finally shrugging and going to do as he was told.

 

15

 

The ride to the camp was a surprisingly short distance, Maximus marveled again at how adept the Germans were at hiding themselves in the native terrain. His scouts had been throughout the area of the encampment- the joining place of two rivers, their estimations of strength had excluded the tribes that were were throughout the many caves and caverns that dotted the limestone terrain along

the river....yet another example of being outsmarted by thinking too much like a Roman, he noted. The scouts- regular legionaries that had been brought up from Vindobona, not auxiliaries who knew the terrain - had been searching for massive, tent-filled encampments on ridgetops and other easily-defended positions. They had not anticipated me settling in wherever nature was most accommodating.

It was nightfall when they reached the center of the camp. Their leader had left the little band with a group of supplies near the edge of the gathered tribes and then gone to meet with the other chiefs.

The Roman fought back a sense of disappointment, he had expected somehow to be allowed to join in, but of course, it was not possible. Still there was much for him to do. He circulated as much as possible among the other men, trying to glean from their rough accents and unfamiliar dialects, some idea of what was to come, and trying to concentrate on his task enough to push thoughts of Kellwryn

away.

"Maximus!" Without thinking that it might be a trap, the Roman swung his head around at the sound of his name, and then blinked at what he saw. It was Lieutenant Lucullus...at least, it looked like Lucullus, clad, as he was, in barbarian robes, a golden torque around his neck.

"What are you doing here?" Maximus hissed in quiet Latin.

"I might ask the same thing of you." The scout answered. "We thought you were dead."

"Almost." Maximus answered. He looked over his shoulder. "What is the news?"

"Ambush. They're planning it for tomorrow night- if they can manage it. They think that the principal forces will be out on maneuvers- the bridge being built across the river at Varilla."

"And will they?"

Lucullus nodded. "But what the Germans don't know, is that Gaius Corianus will be leading the 22nd and 16th overland to take their place."

"Two legions?" Maximus gasped.

The scout nodded, smiling. "Yes. The emperor is tired of siphoning off resources to defend this particular stretch of wilderness. It is time to end it once and for all. The tribes will be beaten. At last. We have others to worry about."

Kellwryn. Maximus worried for a moment that he had whispered the name aloud, the expression on his companions' face was so puzzled- then, he realized it was his own sudden look of displeasure that had drawn the reaction.

"Is anything wrong?" Lucullus asked, after a pause.

"No. I'm just..." Maximus stopped and forced a smile. "Feeling rather sheepish. I was supposed to hide among the Germans to discover their plan, and here I see that I have been useless."

Lucullus laughed, "Hardly useless sir... I daresay that you will have some interesting remarks on German culture." He said diplomatically, "And it is still important to have eyes and ears here among the enemy in case they change their mind."

"What time do you anticipate that the attack will come?"

"In the afternoon. The calvary leaves the fort at high sun. They will want to stick to routine as much as possible so as not to cause any alarm. I am riding out of here just after that time- as soon as they start circulating the order to take arms. You should come with me."

Maximus made a neutral sound. "Tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow."

 

16

 

Maximus tried to sleep that night, but his dreams would not come. The was not like the excitement that he usually felt before a battle-the tingling, glittering excitement that came in the hours before a strike. This was a cold, dull ache that seemed to permeate to his very bones, he knew, too well, what

would happen to Kellwryn and the other inhabitants of the village of the grey fox when the decisive battle had been won. The burning of the huts from te tiny skirmish in the weeks before was mild by comparison. These tribes would be an example to their neighbors in the north. The warriors would be put to the sword, the children would be enslaved, the women ravished, the houses burned, and the

fields spread with salt.

They would be finished, finally and forever, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He shouldn't been WANT to stop it, the very thought was treason, but he could not change his heart.

Selene. He would think of Selene.. A fresh volley of a different kind of pain seized him as his wife- his Roman wife’s- dark, smiling face, forgotten for so long, reappeared in his thoughts. He needed to go home, to hold her in his arms and remember why it was better to be a Roman, to convince himself that someday, when his son was grown, or, perhaps, when his grandchildren crossed these hills, that there would be amphitheaters, and aqueducts and roads. That civilization would come even to this barren place, and no one would remember that it had been paid for in blood. Selene. Home. Spain.

But it was no use. In spite of his best intentions, in spite of the fact that his love for his wife had not dimmed in the slightest amount, his mind refused to be drawn from its focus. The fiery glow of the setting sun amidst his wheat invariably transmuted to the color of Kellwryn's hair. The surface of his lake became her eyes, and even the songs of the crickets that hummed around him became her voice.

"Artrix." It seemed to whisper. "Artrix, wake up. Artrix."

It wasn't the crickets. It was real.

Maximus sat quickly upright, blinking to ensure that his senses were not deceived.

"Kellwryn?"

She smiled faintly. "You didn't say goodbye..." She whispered, and then, looking nervously at his sleeping companions, gestured for him to follow her.

"You took the wrong sword." She said when they were finally alone. She offered another blade, too aware of obvious nature of her pretext to meet his eyes. "My father's." She mumbled "Better...."

Maximus reached forward., but he did not take the weapon. He took her arm instead. "Kellwryn." he said darkly. "You should not have come."

The battle. It would happen tomorrow, and now, Kellwryn would be in its midst.

"You must leave."

"Artrix!"

"Now."

Her features crumpled at the rebuke. "But..."

"Now." Maximus felt his hands begin to tremble as he urged her toward the horse. "You have to hurry. The battle-"

Kellwryn dug her feet into the ground. "I have been in battles." She said indignantly. "Do you think that I am afraid?"

"No." He breathed softly, catching his fingers in his hair. "Kellwryn. It isn't safe. I want you...safe."

Her features had not softened, and Maximus realized, mournfully, that she did not intend to budge. Was he surprised? He pondered the question to himself. If she were not so intrepid, she would be easier to manage, but then, he would not love her so dearly.

"Kellwryn." he whispered again, but this time, the touch of his hand on her spine sent the opposite message stay. He could not change the future. He had tried, and to no avail. He could only seize the present.

 

17

 

"Artrix?" Maximus was awakened again by the sound of Kellwryn's voice, but this time, something had changed. His eyes flew instantly open, as his memories flew through the events of the night before. Kellwryn’s sudden appearance, her refusal to depart, making love to her beneath the trees. What was wrong?

Searching her face for the meaning of her odd tone, Maximus only found her staring straight ahead.

Staring at him.

Staring at his left shoulder.

It was morning, and sunlight was pouring through the trees. Pieces of rays caught on the woman's hair, shining though the coppery locks like a fiery halo, only heightening the supernatural beauty of her face.

"Artrix?" Another strangled cry.

She touched him.

Oh, Gods.

His SPQR tattoo.

Maximus lay completely still, hoping that she would remain calm while he searched for an explanation to soothe away her fears.

"What does this mean?" She choked, stroking the inky marks. "Is it....Artrix?"

I was captured by slavers and forced into the army. I was a spy. It was a joke among my friends. A thousand plausible lies spun through his mind, but only the truth reached his lips.

"My name is Maximus Decimus Meridas." he whispered very softly, removing her wrist from his arm and rising to a sitting position. " I am a....a-"

"Roman."

He was chilled with the bilious manner in which she spat the word.

"Kellwryn." he reached to caress her cheek, but she skittered away as if she had been burned, clawing for the clothing that littered the forest floor.

"Kellwryn, stop." he continued to speak very slowly and softly, taking care to use the proper Germanic words.

"Don't touch me." She said harshly. Her voice was shaking, and he could see tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

"Kellwryn-"

"Don' t say it. Don't say my name." She continued to move away, stumbling forward into a patch of leaved, then lying prone on the leaf littered forest floor, her body convulsing in pain.

"Kellwryn, I'm sorry. Kellwryn, you have to understand, I-"

"What were you doing with me? Spying? did you think that-"

"I wasn't supposed to be with you Kellwryn. It was an accident."

"A mistake."

"A lucky mistake."

He reached for her again, cringing as she once again pulled violently away.

"Kellwryn, I cannot help who I am. I wish...."  What did he wish? That he were not really a Roman? Another lie. He let his voice fade away.

"You touched me." She said accusing. "You....you....like *him*" The shaking increased, her heavy sobs becoming dry heaves.

"Not like him.” Maximus tensed in regret at the comparison. “ I love you, Kellwryn."

"You don't."

"Yes.." he looked at his hands, wondering what more to say.

"Will you betray your Roman dogs for me?"

"Kellwryn-"

"Then you don't.." She looked at him, her blue, tearstained eyes accusing. "Not enough."

Maximus took a deep breath. He couldn't afford to lose his control. This was how it had to end. He knew it. He had always known it. The pain would fade. "Come with me, Kellwryn." He hardly knew what he was saying. Come with him where? To live among the camp? To take home to Hispania to scrub tables for Selene? Illogically, he willed her to say yes. The desperation in his voice was uncontrolled. “Come back. Menchin too. He can have a place there.”

“The place of a slave.”

“The place of my son. As I promised you, Kellwryn. As I promised him.” He was speaking crazily now, even he knew this, but he could not reign his feelings. He must leave her, but must he leave her as all the other had? Broken and alone?

"No."

His lips spread in a tight, trembling line. "Kellwryn, it isn't safe. The Roman's are coming."

"We are attacking the Romans. I heard the men talking last night."

"They are expected. Kellwryn, it’s a trap."

If there was any sort of composure left in the woman's face, it left at his final words. Hope passed from her features. "You called them here!”

He shook his head in denial.

“Turn them back!"

"I cannot."

"For me. Artrix!"

Maximus felt a lump in his throat. "I can't Kellwryn. Even if I wanted to. Even though I DO want to."

"Then go."

"Kellwryn...."

"GO!" Her voice was savage and strangled.

Maximus took a step away, fixing her image in his mind. He hadn't wanted to remember her like this: weak and shattered, loathing him his blood, and for her broken heart ,but he could not tear his eyes away. The cool orbs drank in every gentle plane of her shivering body, searing the image into his mind.

"You do not have to come with me." Maximus said softly, "But please, please leave this place. Go north. The Arivarri are not far from here, and they will take you in. Tell them what has happened and they will keep you safe."

"I don't want to be safe." She answered bitterly.

Maximus tore his eyes reluctantly from her face. He retrieved he father's sword and laid it reverently at her feet, praying that it would protect her in the coming hours, just as she had meant for it to protect him.

"I will pray for you, domina." He said in Latin, aware that she would not understand that he had recognized her as his wife.

Then he turned and said goodbye.

 

18

 

"Maximus?" Quintus' voice was equal parts excitement and disbelief. "Maximus! We thought you were-"

"Dead? I've been getting a lot of that." The Spaniard forced a tired smile. "They must not have a lot of faith in my accent."

"Look at you!" Maximus' friend gestured to his crude clothing and matted beard. "Look at yourself." Another tired attempts at a joke. The battle was over.

Quintus himself was nursing a cut on his forearm, and his garnet tunic was soaked in mud, sweat and gore.

"A victory." Maximus made a statement not a question, and Quintus quickly nodded.

"Decisive. They'll be cleaning out the villages for the next few days, but otherwise its over. It seems that I will make it back to Rome after all." He noticed the distant look in his companion's eyes and stopped speaking "What is it?" He tried to meet the other man's eyes. "What happened while you were gone."

Maximus bit his lip. Could he tell Quintus the truth? Could he tell anyone? Perhaps, but not yet. "All in good time." He said quietly. "I’m going to try to manage a bath...food."

Quintus watched with concern as his friend wandered away.

 

Quintus Clarus had not lied. It had been a firm victory for the legions.

Anticipating little resistance, the barbarians had weakened their flank, and this had provided further advantage for their advancing foes. Dissolving, as they invariably did, into disorganized mobs in the face of surprises, the relentless Roman had slowly worn them away. The losses were incredible. Five

thousand men trapped between the two legions and killed, another three put to the sword as they lingered wounded in the mud. The villages were next. Maximus surprised them all as he joined the centurions and rankers to clean them out.

She wasn't there.

The Spaniard was filled with equal parts disappointment and relief as he left the last village with no sign of Kellwryn or her son. In his dreams, he had found her just before the legionaries began their way though the encampments, she had run to him, forgiving him for his betrayal, thanking him for the wisdom that had saved her life.

In his nightmares, her had found her on the battlefield, bloody and torn: dead.

In reality, she had been nowhere, and the uncertainty- the lack of closure- had been the most difficult to bear. She was alive. Somewhere.

What was she thinking? Was she safe? Would he ever take another breath without whispering her name?

 

19

 

Five years.

Five years, and Maximus could still taste her lips on his. Five years and he still looked for her in every village they passed. Sitting atop his white stallion. General Maximus Decimus Meridas tried to hold his mouth in firm, unreadable line.

Following the battle against the southern tribes, the Germans had fallen silent for a time. Maximus had returned south to his wife, Selene, and his farm on the hillsides near Trujillo. It was a good life. He had planted crops. He had played with his son. He had nearly managed to forget the German woman who haunted his dreams.

Nearly.

But when he hadcome back to Germania, the memories had returned as well.

He didn't love her. At least, that was what he had decided to believe. Kellwryn was right. If he had loved her, she would never have been. If there was not love, there was, at least, desire. He needed Kellwryn on a basic, animal level that  even his careful self-conviction could not erase.

The horses in front of the general pulled to a sudden stop, jolting him from his reverie. Annoyed, Maximus pulled his horse out of line and moved to the front of the column.

"Centurion!" he called to the man at the front. "What is going on?"

"Slavers, sir." The man answered, distaste evident in his voice.

"The finest stock." An oily voice interjected. The man heading that caravan that blocked their path segued himself between the two legionaries, smiling up at Maximus with an over-broad grin. "Fine, broad-backed Germans perfect for camp labor....." Seeing the impassive expression, he continued. "Or, for entertainment purposes, perhaps your men would be interested in one of the ladies?"

Maximus tried to ignore the shocked expression on his centurion's face as he nodded suddenly at the offer and urged his horse forward.

He couldn't help it. He had to at least try.

The commander looked over the motley assembly of "stock" slowly, skimming over the heads of the slaves avoiding their vacant eyes.

"Artrix?"

Maximus stiffened.

Not Kellwryn.

For a moment, Maximus did not recognize the voice that hailed him. He moved his horse closer to look at the man- barely more than a boy- that had spoken his name. He was shorter than the others. Dark, with slashes on both cheeks.

Menchin.

The general felt his mouth go suddenly dry. "This one!" He called excitedly, and the salesman moved hastily forward. "That one is quite a fighter sir. A little smaller, but still good for work, He's worth-"

"Yes, yes." Maximus waved him aside. "My steward will pay you. Unchain him Unchain him now."

His eyes flew urgently over the remaining merchandise.

"Is your mother....?"

"My mother is dead."

Abruptly, the searching ceased.

 

20

 

Kellwryn had not died in the battle, though Maximus somehow wished she had when he learned the peculiar circumstances of her passing. If she had been killed in the fray, he might have shared the guilt for her death with his fellow soldiers.

As it was, he alone was to blame.

She had died in childbirth, shedding her life’s blood to bear a daughter in the summer after he had left.

His daughter.

Now he could only mourn them both.

With his mother no longer able to protect him, Menchin had followed the few remaining warriors into battle. His career had been brief. Captured in the second battle, he had been taken as a slave in a Roman house within the province.

"Cicero" his mistress had named him. Maximus could not help but smile. A solid Roman name. Nothing could be less obvious and yet it was somehow appropriate.

Here, among the people of his father, the boy was valued for his intelligence and dependability. His Latin was good and his manners unobtrusive. His shortcomings as a warrior were unimportant.

"You are free." Maximus said gently to the boy who stood in the corner of his tent. The freedman made no move for the door, and so Maximus indulged his curiosity. "Where will you go?"

Cicero shrugged. "Wherever there is work."

"Not back to Germania then? Back to your people?"

"They were never my people."

No, Of course not. The prophecy that Maximus had made to Kellwryn had proven true. Only here, among the Romans, could he be valued and accepted.

"You could stay here with me."

"Here?"

There was an uneasy silence between the pair. Maximus had not asked Cicero if Kellwryn had told him about the man's departure. He figured, at a minimum, that the boy had guessed the truth. Did the boy hate him as his mother had?

"I'd like to....for your mother....I....I owe..."

"You made her happy." Cicero's words were abrupt. "You were the only one who ever did."

"I broke her heart." Maximus' voice was strained.

Cicero chewed his lip. "Bruised." he said after a long pause. The boy shifted his weight and let his eyes wander around the tent."I will stay here."

Maximus blinked, pleased, but surprised. Was he forgiven? Was there anything left to forgive?

Cicero smiled mysteriously at the only man who had been kind to him when he was a boy, at the love of his mother's life. He turned for the exit, but lingered just before the flap.

"My mother never hated me for being Roman."

He wondered if Maximus knew what he meant.

 

 

THE END