To Love Again - Bertrice Small [20]
Quintus Drusus was expansive in his good humor. Sharing wine with his cousins Titus and Flavius, he teased them, “I hear it said that there is a certain slave girl at your father’s villa who ripens like a summer melon. Which one of you is responsible, eh?” He poked a playful finger in their direction and chuckled.
The twins flushed, and then laughed guiltily.
“We are not certain,” Flavius admitted. “As has been our habit from childhood, we shared.”
“Mother was quite angry with us. She says we are going to be matched and married before the summer is out lest we cause a scandal,” Titus told his older cousin. “The girl has recently miscarried, at any rate, and so we shall never know who the father was, though perhaps we would not have known anyway.”
“And Father says we are not to dip our buckets in any more wells, no matter how sweet the water,” Flavius added.
“And have your brides been chosen, cousins?” Quintus asked.
“Not yet,” Titus replied. “Father would go slightly farther afield than Corinium. He says it is time for fresh blood in the family. I think, perhaps, he is not pleased with the girls available to us here.”
“The selection is not particularly great,” Quintus observed. “I was fortunate in my darling Antonia. May the gods bring you both the same good fortune, my young cousins, and may I live to celebrate the name day of all of your children.” He raised his goblet and drank.
They, in turn, saluted him.
“And what of Cailin?” Quintus asked. “Is she to be matched with a husband soon? She grows more beautiful every day.” He looked across the room to where Cailin sat with his wife. “Had I not fallen in love with my Antonia on sight, I should have despaired at losing your lovely sister. Whoever she chooses will be a fortunate man.”
“There seems to be no man who attracts our sister,” Flavius said. “I wonder indeed if there is any man who will do so. She is sometimes strange in her ways, our sister. There is more Celt in her, we say, than Roman blood. What a pity if she were to die a virgin.”
“More wine, master?” A tall slave stood by Quintus’s elbow.
“Yes, Cato, thank you. And fill my cousins’ goblets, too,” he said jovially.
On Beltane night the bonfires blazed from every hill in the province. The Celtic celebration in honor of the new growing season was underway and shared by all. Class barriers seemed to fade as men and women, freeborn and slave, danced together and shared potent cups of honeyed mead around the fires.
Gaius Drusus Corinium had just finished making love to his wife in the privacy of their empty house when he thought he heard a noise. Arising, he went out into the atrium to investigate. He never saw the two intruders who came up behind him and strangled him swiftly.
Kyna did not realize the thump she heard was that of her husband’s body falling to the floor. She arose, and was but halfway across the bedchamber when the room was invaded by two men.
“I told you she was a beauty,” the taller said.
It was easy to divine their intent. Terrified, Kyna began to back away. “I am the daughter of Berikos, chief of the Dobunni,” she managed to say, although her throat was tight with fear.
The taller man grabbed Kyna, his mouth pressing against the mouth that had only just entertained her husband’s sweet kisses. Kyna fought her attacker like a lioness, clawing and spitting at him. Laughing, the man pushed her upon her marriage bed, falling atop her, his hands pushing up her sleep tunic. The other man was quickly at her head, silencing her screams with his hand. Kyna prayed to the gods for a quick death.
Brenna returned to the villa early. She had been chaperoning Cailin at the celebration, but her granddaughter did not really need her. There was no one who took Cailin’s fancy, and besides, the girl would not go off into the darkness with any man. She simply enjoyed