Page 41 of Taming the Eagle
Kahina swallowed. “Roman soldiers aren’t permitted to marry while they’re in service to the empire … although the law isn’t always followed, especially out here on the frontier.” She paused then, looking away. “All the same, the magistrates would never allow him to wed a former slave.”
“I hear your slave’s brother has turned out to be quite a fighter,” Marcus huffed as he parried Justin’s blow. The two men fought with blunted blades in the practice ring on the edge of the parade ground.
Justin grunted, striking again. “I’m surprised he’s still alive.”
And he was. A month had passed since the warrior had been taken captive. They weren’t out of winter yet, for spring came late this far north, yet the air wasn’t quite as raw. The arena put on games every few days. They were good for the army’s morale, especially after months of bitter cold.
Justin hadn’t attended any of the matches, although he’d expected the young Wolf to have fallen by now. In truth, he tried not to think about Eogan. The warrior was a reminder of his slave, and how much she hated him.
Ever since he’d refused to spare her brother, Fenella had barely looked at him. Any attempts to converse with her were met with icy silence. However, he’d marked the tension on her face, the worry shadowing her eyes. She wanted to know how her brother fared, yet pride prevented her from asking.
At the time, Justin had stood by his decision, harsh as it was. He couldn’t give in to his slave’s demands; it would make him look weak.
The Wolves they’d taken prisoner were all dangerous men, and loyal ones too. He’d questioned them the day of their arrival, but had learned nothing about their camp, their plans, or their chieftain. It had quickly become evident that not even torture would loosen their tongues—and as such, he’d let the arena have them.
But with the passing of the weeks, Justin had started to regret taking such a hard line where Fenella’s brother was concerned.
She would never warm to him now.
“He’s quick … and mean,” Marcus replied, lunging forward with an attack of his own. “I saw him fight a few days ago. He was impressive.” Their blades collided, a dull clang reverberating off the surrounding walls. “The Wolf Cub is fighting The Dacian this afternoon … in a death match. Why don’t you join me in the stands?”
Justin snorted. “I’m too busy.” He then shoved hard, sending Marcus reeling.
However, the centurion was agile. He rolled to his feet before attacking once more. “Come on, Justin. The game promises to be a spectacle. Everyone in camp is talking about it.”
Parrying Marcus’s blows, Justin ducked under his guard, slamming the flat of his blade across the man’s belly.
Gasping, the centurion staggered. Seizing his opportunity, Justin knocked Marcus’s blade from his hand and sent it flying into the dirt. The soldiers awaiting their turn at the edge of the practice ring cheered. They always enjoyed watching the legate and the primus pilus spar.
Breathing hard, Justin eyed his friend.
Marcus cast him a rueful look and rubbed his torso. “The Dacian is a formidable fighter,” he wheezed.
“I know,” Justin replied. He’d heard of the former slave who’d won his freedom in Londinium. He was reputed to stand at nearly seven foot and to be built like an ox. “But can the Wolf Cub beat him?”
Marcus shrugged. “He just might.”
The two men walked from the practice ring, making way for the next two soldiers. They took cloths from a waiting attendant, and wiped their sweating faces and brows, before heading toward the armory. On the parade ground, men were going through drills, and so Justin and Marcus skirted the wide space.
The thud of feet and the rattling of armor, shields, and spears drifted through the crisp morning air. The shouts of centurions mingled with the rhythmic clang of weapons being hammered into shape at a nearby forge. Carts rumbled past, filled with large sacks of wheat, barley, and oats bound for the granaries. A fort the size of Ardoch required a lot of grain, for the men lived on bread and a mash made of grain, milk, butter, and salt.
Justin surveyed the activity around him, his mouth curving. “The men seem happier of late,” he noted.
Marcus cut him a look. “Taking back Dalginross and Bochastle makes them feel more secure.” He then grinned. “And they’re looking forward to this afternoon’s game.”
“This peace won’t last,” Justin reminded him, his mood sobering. Their outposts were still secure, and the frontier had gone very quiet of late. Yet he didn’t trust the silence. “Toutorix is still at large … and who knows what trouble he’s been stirring up.” His gaze fused with Marcus’s then. “After the match, ready your men … we will ride out on another patrol tomorrow.”
XV. THE WOLF CUB
FENELLA WAS BEATING mats with a paddle when Aquila strode into the courtyard. She spied him out of the corner of her eye yet ignored the man. He’d move on when it was clear she wouldn’t acknowledge him.
But he didn’t.
Instead, the Eagle stalked right up to her and halted.
“Fenella,” he rumbled. “Turn around.”
Clenching her jaw, she gave the mat she’d been beating a final two thwacks—much harder than was necessary—before eventually turning to him. A cloud of dust swirled around them, and her nose itched, a sneeze building.