luck was silly superstition. She looked forward to knowing him, while shivering slightly at the prospect of lovemaking. Would it enchant? Would it hurt? She wished he'd been bolder in their embraces so far-more experience would reassure her-but his shyness also made him less threatening. If he'd done nothing yet to ignite the kind of love that the druidess had forecast in Londinium… well, that would come.
Lucinda had tried to explain it. 'Men don't talk as openly of their heart, but they feel as much as we do. You'll see his moods and learn to read and direct and love him.' 'Like you and centurion Falco?' She laughed. 'I'm still getting him in harness.' 'So love comes?'
'His nature is to protect you. You'll teach him to hold you as well. And when he does-' The matron smiled. 'That's when the pair of you becomes stronger than iron against all the cares of the world.'
The simple ceremony came first. Sextus, a good-natured and simple-spoken veteran of the Wall, did a creditable and diplomatic job, calling on his spring's goddess to let the couple's happiness well upward like a fountain. In deference to the varied beliefs of all those present, he asked for all the other gods-Christian, Roman, and Celtic-to join in blessing the union.
Marcus stood stiffly during the recitation, as if afraid of making a mistake. Valeria was appropriately demure but stole glances at her new husband. When he took her right hand in his to promise fidelity, the firm grip was more suggestive of a treaty or business agreement than a touch of love, but when he took her left, it was with a gentle touch that he slipped a ring on that fourth finger that physicians teach leads with a nerve directly to the heart. The ring bore a sculpted intaglio of the goddess Fortuna: luck, perhaps, to counter her fears about the wedding's timing. Finally he lifted her veil, and she gave her new husband a tremulous smile. And that was that, because, as was proper, he made no move to embrace or kiss her yet. That must wait until the end of the feasting. Valeria was led to a banquet couch where, on her wedding night alone, she'd be allowed to recline at supper like a man.
'And now eat and drink so that your joy might become theirs!' Sextus concluded.
The party obeyed with gusto.
There was song from the lute and pipes, games of wit, and poems of love. A village maiden leaped upward to dance a vigorous jig with the speed of swallow wings, kicking and twirling to the thump of ancient drums. The music was primitive and simple, but the song was so primeval that it seemed like blood pumping to Valeria's heart, an echo of a wilder world. Was that what it was like beyond the Wall? She felt superior, as reigning lady of the fortress and its civilization now. Yet what must it be like to be as free as this wild Celt, dancing and drinking and catching men's eyes…
From duty comes devotion, and from devotion comes love…
Slaves slipped in and among the guests like wraiths, refilling plate and goblet, furtively nibbling themselves, and secretly smiling at the growing drunkenness of the guests. One slave in particular was tall and well muscled but noticeably clumsy, with the feral look of a recent captive. What defeat, she wondered, had led him here? Had he left his own wife behind?
The wounded Clodius, reclining on another couch, also studied the awkward servant, but with ill humor. While most of the assembly was boisterous, the young tribune was uncharacteristically quiet. He'd watched the brief ceremony that gave Valeria to her new husband with a tight smile, and now he watched the slave to keep his stare from fixating on the young bride. She reclined on her wedding couch like a ripe golden apple, her skin smooth and flawless, her dark eyes bright and triumphant, her hair like a bolt of Asian silk, and watching her was a kind of exquisite torture. Wed to a wooden man who seemed embarrassed even to have Clodius on his staff, a praefectus who had more appreciation for his office than for the woman who'd given it to him…
Clodius also sat well away from Galba, who, he suspected, was laying the blame for the ambush on him. By the gods, it hadn't been bis decision to get those remounts! And yet it was he who had stumbled into a Celtic ambush, and he who had been made a fool of. Word of how he had greeted his commander, stripped of sword and mount, had swiftly made its way through the fort. One turma of soldiers had snapped to attention before him with red lines painted across their throats, grinning like idiots.
Never had he endured such humiliation.
How long this single year would drag! The few Roman girls at the party were plain and boring provincial brats, giggling and dull, while the Celtic lasses were rudely independent and, in any event, beneath his station. None came close to the beauty of Valeria. Worst of all, his neck wound ached where the bandit had cut it, forcing him to wear a humiliating neckerchief to hide the cut.
What he could do was drink, and he did so industriously. He imbibed his wine as if parched and soon was observing the wedding party through an alcoholic haze. Everyone seemed to be having fun, which made his own gloom worse. Even the slaves seemed to be enjoying themselves, except the big one who kept dropping things. 'Who's that slave over there, the tall and clumsy one?' he croaked irritably to a merchant named Torus. 'The oaf looks like a mule in a pottery shed.'
The Briton looked where his seatmate was gesturing. 'That's our grand Scotti prince, I'm told. Captured by Falco in recent battle. Odo, I think his name is.'
'A prince cleaning food scraps?'
'It was Galba who set the trap for him.'
'Ah, yes, Galba. Our premier strategist.' Clodius looked across the room. The senior tribune sat in the shadows quiet and alone, sipping little, never looking at the bridal pair, and ignoring attempts at conversation. 'Our unconquered warrior. Except when allowing my throat to be cut.'
'It was a barbarian who cut you, not the senior tribune. Probably some other hotheaded buck just like you, or that Eiru slave there. All of you out to end life at its beginning, when the real purpose is to enjoy it to its end.'
'Yes. Like him.' Clodius drained his cup. 'Brother in arms to Britlet scum.' He reached for a fig, eyeing Valeria morosely, and as his arm extended, he accidentally knocked over the flagon of his seatmate's drink. Before he could right it, beer foamed off a slate table in a white cascade. He looked at it numbly while heads swung to the clatter. Damn them for noticing.
'My opinion of Briton beer!' Clodius shouted.
A Roman laughed. Encouraged, the young tribune reared up and swayed unsteadily, making the assembled guests titter in anticipation. The tribune's scarf caused a whisper of explanation.
'In fact, my opinion to date of bastard Britannia!'
There were hoots and catcalls. 'Beer takes you to the same place as wine,' insisted an annoyed Torus, watching as a slave girl mopped the mess. 'More cheaply and with heartier taste.' Several guests applauded, and the merchant signaled for another cup. Odo was pushed forward.
'Really?' Clodius slurred. 'Well, may I offer an observation on the matter penned by the emperor Julian when he was stationed in Britannia? I find his wisdom appealing.'
'Yes!' shouted the assembly. 'Recite the pagan emperor's critique!'
Odo bent down beside Clodius to refill Torus's flagon.
'The title is, 'Of Wine Made from Barley,'' Clodius announced. The other Romans laughed. Their disdain for crude northern drink was well-known.
'Who made you, and from what?' Clodius recited, hoisting his neighbor's refilled cup for display and looking at it as if baffled. 'By the true Bacchus, I know you not.'
There was snickering, a clap, and cries of disagreement. 'The wine smells of nectar, as the poet wrote.' Clodius cautiously took a sniff. 'But this beer, alas, smells of goat!'
Laughter, and applause. Encouraged, Clodius bowed. Then, impulsively, he tilted the beer goblet and dumped its contents over Odo's head.
The slave went rigid. The laughter faltered. Odo stared straight ahead at nothing, blinking his eyes against the sting.
Clodius looked down at the slave's wet head and smiled with amusement. 'Little Celt! You don't like your nation's drink? Or are you hoping I'll pour you more?'
The slave knew better than to risk an answer.
Clodius waited, daring the man to respond, and then jerked the goblet toward the slave's face, making Odo flinch as he was spattered with the last drops. 'I don't think our Scotti prince agrees with Roman taste, comrades. Perhaps he's too good for us.'
The room had gone quiet.
Suddenly the slave shook his head, spraying Clodius and Torus with beer.
Clodius exploded with rage. 'Damn you!' The tribune flung the goblet, and it banged against Odo's head. The
