The Lion and the Lark Read Online Free PDF Page B

down.”
         Bronwen looked on as the Romans broke ranks and sprawled on the grass, taking sips from the jugs in their packs and splashing their faces with the water.
         “Why do they need to stop?  I thought they were all invincible gods, able to march sixteen mila   a day on nothing but bread and vinegar laced water.  It can’t be five mila from the inlet to the fort.”
         “They’re stopping because that leader is smart,” Brettix said, reluctant admiration in his tone.  “He wants them to look refreshed and strong as they pass close to our camp.”
         “He seems young to be in charge of this whole expedition,” Bronwen said softly, staring down at the tall man as he removed his cloak and wiped his face with it.
         “They start training early,” Brettix said dryly.
         The Roman adjusted the scabbard at his waist, pulling his tunic close against his body.  Bronwen was struck by his lean back and broad shoulders, the way the bright sunlight glinted on his raven hair.
         “He’s handsome,” she observed.  “Too bad he’s nothing but a filthy Roman pig.”
         Brettix glanced at her over his shoulder.  “A pig who looks like a prince is still a pig.”
         “I know.”
         “I’m taking you home.  I think you’ve been out in the sun too long.”  Brettix wheeled the horse around and nudged him up the path.
         Bronwen looked back at the group of Romans and saw the leader say something to his companion and then smile.
         She would have occasion to remember, long afterwards, that moment and that smile.
     
     
         Lucia stood in the atrium  of her house at the fort, its roof open to the  blue sky, watching the new troops march past her door on their way to the barracks.  In the forefront she saw Claudius Leonatus, who had visited her father’s estate in Rome several times.  He looked the same, as sleek and feline as ever, true to his name.  As he walked by she remembered how her girlfriends would blush and giggle to see him, drooling over the hero of the Spanish campaigns.
         Lucia had never been able to warm up to him herself.  He was attractive enough physically, but there was something flat and withdrawn in his eyes, as if the early death of his wife and baby had killed something in him, something which she could not revive.  He was always polite when he saw her, inclining his head deferentially and flashing those perfect white teeth.  But when she tried to connect with him more intimately he would look away, fixing his gaze beyond her and then looking back at her when she spoke, as if just remembering that she was there.  When her father had put her forward to Leonatus as a marital candidate, she’d been relieved when some legal impediment was discovered and the subject was dropped.  It was her private opinion that the lion did not want to marry anyone, that he had climbed into the crypt with his young family and just his shell was walking around in the guise of a man.
         Of course, if she had known she would wind up with the tax collector, she might have tried harder to engage Claudius’ attention.
         “Very impressive,” her mother said sarcastically at her shoulder.   “I hope they fight as well as they look or we will be overrun by these barbarians by spring.”
         Lucia turned to look at her mother, at the perfectly coiffed and ringleted hair, the expertly applied cosmetics, the silken palla   bordered with gold, the earrings of amethyst set in polished brass.  Drucilla Scipio spent half her morning engaged in her toilette, ordering servants about like a slavemaster and changing several times, getting ready to do nothing.  Lucia wished that her brother were still alive.  He had always been able to make her mother smile, but he had succumbed to a fever while encamped with Caesar’s troops, fighting the great Vercingetorix on the Rhone River in Gaul.  Lucia