The Warrior's Bride Prize

‘Marius?’ Ario came running across the fort as the prisoner staggered out, squinting in the daylight. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Letting him go.’ He didn’t flinch from the Decurion’s interrogative stare, meeting it squarely. ‘I can’t explain, but it’s something I have to do.’

Ario held his gaze for a tense moment and then ran a hand across his jaw. ‘He hasn’t told us anything yet. We don’t know their numbers or when they’re coming.’

‘I know.’ He glanced towards the prisoner. Despite an outward look of defiance there was a distinct glimmer of fear in the boy’s eyes, as if he were afraid of what they were about to do to him. The thought made Marius ashamed and even more determined.

‘I take full responsibility. I doubt the boy will tell us anything unless we force him to and I won’t do that. We know enough. Those warriors would never have dared to attack us so soon in b

road daylight if they weren’t planning something bigger. I’ll send word to Coria to prepare the legion.’

‘Without the prisoner, you’ve no proof.’

‘If I’m wrong, Nerva can demote me.’

Ario blew air from between his teeth. ‘Perhaps the prisoner told us something before he died from his injuries?’

Marius arched an eyebrow. ‘I don’t ask you to lie for me.’

‘But I will anyway.’ Ario swore softly. ‘I owe you a debt, remember?’

‘You’re a good friend.’ Marius watched as the prisoner disappeared through the fortress gates, then turned his gaze back in the direction of the villa, his feet itching to go back to her, though he had a fort to prepare for battle first. If only the battle didn’t arrive before he could set things right between them...

‘Go.’ Ario gave him a pointed look. ‘I’ll get everything ready.’

‘Set double lookouts.’ He clasped the Decurion’s arm gratefully. ‘And tell the men to get ready for battle. The rebellion’s coming.’

* * *

‘You’re back?’ Livia looked up sharply as he reappeared in the doorway. She was still sitting on the edge of the bed, her face pale and drawn. ‘I didn’t think you would be.’

‘Neither did I.’ He took a step into the room. ‘I’ve let the prisoner go.’

‘What?’ Her eyes widened, looking bigger and bluer than he’d ever seen them. ‘Why?’

‘Because I know what it’s like to have divided loyalties, too. Sending that boy to a life of slavery might be the Roman way, but it would be wrong.’ He coiled and uncoiled his fingers, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. ‘It’s not my way either. I’d just forgotten that until now. Most of all, I don’t want to start our marriage with his fate coming between us.’

‘Start our marriage?’

‘Start again—if you want to, that is. Only listen first.’ He put up a hand as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘Then decide.’

He moved to the edge of the bed, planting his feet in the same spot where he’d confronted her an hour before, although it felt like days ago.

‘I told you, my father was accused of mutiny. It was while he was stationed in Germania. He was a senior centurion at forty years old, a soldier who’d come from nothing and nowhere and risen in the ranks on his own merit. His men loved him and he loved them, enough not to waste their lives.

‘There was an uprising amongst the Germanic tribes that year and my father was ordered to lead four cohorts east to stop it. It was already autumn, too late in the year for a campaign and in dangerous forested territory, but the Tribune who gave the order, a fool like Scaevola, wanted to win himself some acclaim. Everyone advised him against it, but the order stood. So my father led his men across the Rhenus. It didn’t take them long to realise the extent of their mistake. The tribes attacked them over and over, day and night. My father lost a quarter of his men just on the retreat, but when they got back to headquarters the Tribune called him a coward and ordered them back again. My father refused. He said he wouldn’t send good men to their deaths and was charged with inciting mutiny.’

‘What happened then?’ She asked the question softly.

‘What usually happens to mutineers. He was sentenced to death. Fortunately, he had friends, senior officers who knew his real value and pleaded for him.’

‘Nerva?’

‘He was one of them. The case was taken before the Governor of Germania. He couldn’t dismiss the charges or contradict a tribune in public, but he was able to spare my father’s life, for all the good that it did. He was dishonourably discharged and sent home in disgrace.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘When he came back to Rome he was a different man, as if something had broken inside him. Before he died he told me the truth about what had happened.’ He gritted his teeth at the memory. ‘I was so angry.’