Chapter One

Blood dripped from the sword onto the centurion’s sandals, staining his naked toes and mingling with the spattered Breton mud. An unconscious shiver of disgust ran through Marius. He was not prejudiced; after all, he had spent sixteen years on this sodden island and was quite used to these people. But it did not stop the unwelcome flash of sentiment that the blood filtering down through his toes was somehow infected, impure. Marius knew better, but that did not help either. Twenty-five years of rigorous military training and a forty-year lifetime of Roman indoctrination were difficult to avoid. He wanted nothing more than to wash his feet.

“Merda!” he swore under his breath.

Marius stood above the body of a Breton warrior sinking into the mud and a kind of pity moved him. Although he knew this was part of a centurion’s duty as well as an integral part of being a Roman soldier, he hated killing and avoided it as often as he could. This man had given him no choice. The Breton, large even by native standards, had bellowed when the Roman soldiers came out of the woods and ran straight for him with what Marius thought was a sword. It was not, of course. By the time he realized it, it was too late—his trained reflexes had responded on their own. The man was dead before he hit the ground; the old rusted javelin askew in his limp fingers. After twenty-five years and close to three hundred kills, Marius still hated it. Compassion made him a good centurion; compassion had also landed him on this wretched island. The irony was not lost on him.

He looked down at the crumpled, blood-soaked body as he wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic.

Sheathing the sword, Marius shot a glance at the woods lining the open field and caught the fleeting wisp of a woman, with golden-red hair, standing inside the shadow of a tree. When he blinked, the wisp was gone; but he knew she was watching and had been for quite some time. Marius was certain she was not going anywhere. The woman was probably part of a contingent representing the small king of this area; the one that owed the empire repayment of loans; the one they had come here to investigate and ultimately to obligate. They did not need the tribute. What they needed was the alliance. Conall? The name flashed through his mind along with a hundred other details he cataloged with a single, hard glance. He would handle it as he always did, in due time.

The angry glares of the remaining four Bretons, quickly pushed to their knees by Marius’ men, reminded him of the aggravations he and his soldiers faced on a daily basis. Even though they had contributed countless improvements to these people, made their lives more productive, richer and safer, the legions had never been exactly welcomed in Britannia; but neither had they been aggressively repelled either. The truce was abundantly frail. His thoughts turned, as they often did these days, to the unverified news of impending Breton revolts. Whether real or imagined, the echoing gossip that recently filtered from camp to camp could not be stopped—or ignored. Marius knew the next few weeks would either verify or disprove the rumors. Again, he would handle it in due time. He was a very patient man.

“Aelius,” he called in a quiet, commanding voice.

“Sir?” The young man was dark, short and although Roman-trim and very neat, there was always a look of rumple about him, as if he and those deep blue eyes had just tumbled out of his bedroll. A roguish half smile sometimes charmed his face, as it did now, and it was difficult not to return the expression, even though Marius usually managed it.

Before the centurion could turn to his aide, he felt an overwhelming urge to scan the forest again. He found himself distracted by the startling loveliness that peered at him from the coarse pines and had to constrain his moment of weakness. Forcing down the unexpected stirring, he straightened his shoulders and took a short breath.

“Tell them they are under arrest for cultivating Roman land and we are taking them to our camp for interrogation.”

Marius had never learned their language. He always meant to, but the strange guttural consonants and awful combined vowels made his throat hurt. The language, like the people who spoke it, was peculiar and alien, and he could not get used to it.

Aelius, on the other hand, spoke three languages fluently and several others with nearly as much skill. He was always lisping in that strange Greek/Roman accent, making him an excellent aide. Aelius had a Greek mother, a Roman father, and an unacknowledged Breton grandmother who taught him her native tongue.

In perfect Gaelic, Aelius repeated the order to the four Bretons. They merely stared up at him; knees soaking in the sopping clay. Their foreign eyes sparked with a mixture of fear, anger, or outright loathing. They had their hands tied behind their backs as a murky drizzle intensified the misery and displeasure on their weather worn faces. Each man had long, dark or reddish hair with his calves wrapped in tightly hitched furred leggings. Around the shoulders of each was a colorful tunic in blues and yellows that was striking even when wet and dirty. The bright fabric seemed strangely out of place in this gray-drenched world. Their clothes were a sharp contrast to the highly meticulous Roman soldiers with their polished metal adornments and crisp, segmented silver armor.

The red of their wool tunics looked bright and bloody against the half-plowed field.

Marius ordered the Bretons tied together and the dead one wrapped and strapped to one of the spare plow horses. The other animals were unshackled and tied behind the men as Marius mounted his own. The Breton horses seemed small and squat next to the tall Roman breeds. As dusk sifted in through the leaves, the remaining of the fifteen soldiers marched into the forest to return to their camp and dinner, slowly pulling the Bretons behind them. Marius’ mind wandered, involuntarily, to the woman hiding just inside the woods.

Would she follow them?

Well behind his scrupulous self-control, held deeply away from the light where no one else could see, was the first ardent thought he had in a very, very long time. He would make it a point to see the woman again, with her flash of golden-red hair. Marius wistfully hoped she would do something wrong, even a minor infraction, so he could find leverage to get her into his bed. It was extremely doubtful, but it did not stop the desire. He could feel his body respond again, which surprised him; it had been a long time since a woman could move him with a glance. He smiled at Aelius, who frowned suspiciously, but said nothing. Marius leaned over to whisper to him and his second, Leonius. They nodded obediently, taking up positions on the outside of the men. He whistled to his beast and picked up the pace, making the soldiers lunge to catch up.

Fifteen minutes into the march, Marius silently gestured to the two men. It was such a subtle thing the other soldiers did not even catch it. As softly as a breeze, they peeled away from the outside of the advancing Romans and disappeared like smoke into the woods as Marius and the remaining soldiers continued forward. He knew he would not see them again until they reached camp only a few miles away. With any luck, they would have an additional Breton in tow.