Page 55 of Ensnaring the Dove
Colombia swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in her throat. She thought once more of Aedan, of how he’d rescued her, how he’d escorted her to safety and refused to take payment for it. He was an honest man, a good one. “Surelysomeof the Britons are trustworthy,” she murmured, chagrin creeping into her voice.
Severus pulled a face. “Perhaps … but I’ve yet to meet one I’d rely on.”
XXIII. HONORING MARS
DRAWING HER PALLA close, Colombia stepped under the shelter of the grand portico that ringed the headquarters building and the parade ground. Moira ducked in next to her—and both women watched as the neat rows of soldiers came to a rattling halt on the parade ground.
A trumpet echoed through the fort, the mournful sound causing the fine hair on the back of Colombia’s forearms to rise.
Linus was there, of course, striding down the ranks, his gaze sweeping over his men. They straightened as he moved by, before they saluted him by slamming their fisted right hands over their hearts.
The primus pilus hadn’t noticed the two women observing the parade from the shadow of the colonnade. As always, when Linus was at work, he was focused on that and nothing else.
Two months had passed now since Colombia had arrived at Onnum, and she hadn’t spoken to him since the day she’d given back his ring—and he hadn’t sought her out either. Their lack of contact had been a relief.
“I’ve never seen a soldier wearing flowers around his neck before,” Moira observed.
Cutting her companion a sidelong look, Colombia noted the slight curve of the woman’s mouth. Indeed, it was an incongruous sight to see Roman soldiers wearing garlands of flowers.
Moira had wondered what the baskets of wildflowers she’d helped Colombia and the other women pick the afternoon before, from the hills that stretched around Onnum, had been for—and now she knew.
“It does look a little strange,” Colombia admitted. “Especially since so many of them are scowling.”
It was true. Despite their gleaming armor, which they’d have spent all morning polishing for the purification rites for Armilustrium, a great number of the men wore sour expressions.
Colombia tensed as her gaze traveled along the line. Today marked the end of the campaigning season. Indeed, the garrisons stretched out along the Wall were all getting ready for the long, cold winter. Armilustrium honored Mars, God of War. Just the day before, they’d sacrificed a horse to celebrate Equus October. Usually, the men would be in high spirits. Once night fell, there would be a procession with torches around the fort, which would conclude at the shrine to Mars in the praetorium. After that, there would be feasting and drinking.
“I hope the festivities sweeten their tempers,” she murmured, voicing her worries aloud. “Of course, the men are angry about missing their last wages. Their hunt for the stolen pay wagons has been unsuccessful … and there isn’t enough coin in the strongroom to pay them until the next convoy arrives at Saturnalia.”
“Most of them would only gamble it away, anyway,” Moira pointed out. “Although I hear the taverns in the vicus aren’t doing well these days. They rely on the patronage of hard-drinking legionaries.”
Colombia glanced back at the slave, noting her wry smile. It had taken a while for Moira to warm to her, yet these days, the two women were much more at ease in each other’s company. The Brigante woman had a dry sense of humor that Colombia appreciated.
“You’re right … most of them waste their salaries,” she replied. “However, their loyalty to my father comes at a price. None of them work for free.”
Moira nodded, her attention shifting back to the rows of legionaries, and to the man wearing a blood-red cloak, who’d just stridden out onto the parade ground. Commander Juventus’s deep voice echoed across the space. Despite that he was nearing the end of his fourth decade, Colombia’s father carried himself like a man half his age.
She wasn’t surprised that he’d caught Moira’s eye now. Although the boldness of her stare did surprise Colombia a little. Whenever the woman served them at mealtimes in the triclinium, the slave rarely looked the commander’s way.
A gust of biting wind barreled across the compound then, whipping strands free from Colombia’s tightly braided hairstyle. As always, Moira had done a fine job with her hair that morning, yet it wouldn’t survive the blustery weather.
Glancing up at the slate-colored sky, Colombia frowned. She wanted to visit the cloth merchant in the vicus, although she didn’t wish to get rained upon.
“Come on,” she murmured to Moira. “Let’s get our errand done before the rain arrives.”
Leaving the portico, the two women took the street to the gate leading into the civilian settlement. The guards patrolling there weren’t paying much attention to the comings and goings. Instead, they were casting a pair of dice in the dirt and exchanging insults.
Colombia frowned at their lack of attention.
The two women emerged into the bustling market square. The vicus was even busier than usual today. The locals were also celebrating Armilustrium in their own way. Streamers of flowers hung from doorways and windows, although the gusty wind had dislodged some of them.
Walking through the square, Colombia inhaled the aroma of spit-roasting boar. The Romans who lived within the vicus had set up spits around the perimeters of the square and were slowly cooking them in preparation for nightfall. Dusk was still some way off, yet a row of torches had already been driven into the ground to be lit after dark.
A drop of rain caught Colombia on the cheek, and she glanced once more up at the sky. Hopefully, the weather wouldn’t douse the revelry.
“I hope the cloth merchant hasn’t closed his doors early,” she muttered, quickening her stride. “Since there’s a festival.”
“We can always go back tomorrow,domina,” Moira reminded her gently. “The fabric will still be there.”