IT BEGAN WITH a whisper.

A mere snatch of conversation heard while on his way to the baths; and yet in that half-breath of a moment, the snippet of song on Justus' lips was replaced with choking silence.

He minded then how sharply the damp, mossy walls of the fort stood out against the pale grey of sky; how loud the tramp of the guards sounded as they strolled back and forth above the gates. A cough from an auxiliary on the battlements above him thundered in his ears. The world darkened to his senses and then grew vivid once more.

Stumbling back to his barracks, all thoughts of a bath forgotten, Justus paused before the door of the squat building, identical to the legionaries' quarters of every army camp across the Roman Empire. Looking back, he gazed at the town and the green, rolling landscape that sloped away from the castrum the hillfort was built upon. A cold breath of wind stirred the scraggly bushes leaning against the walls, an empty, mocking rustling. The clouds above parted for an instant, revealing brilliant azure beyond the bleak gloom; and then it was gone. Gone like the fleeting joy of the past year.

His throat constricted and he turned away, stepping into the damp darkness of the barracks.

Within seconds, his eyes adjusted to the dusty gloom and he made his way to his humble centurion's cot, settling down upon it. Faint creaks and scuffles could be heard from his soldiers as they moved about, discarding their embossed-leather armor for woolen tunics and tight-fitting breeks beneath. The air reeked of musty straw, leather, sour metal, and sweat. A couple auxiliaries passed him on their way out to the baths, but neither of them said a word.

Justus placed his head in his hands, his mind whirling with what he had overheard.

Quintus says we shall be marching out soon. That British whore is gathering forces for a rebellion; her hosts have already besieged Camulodunum. We are to send a large vexillatio to hold back the tide while we wait for reinforcements....

Justus lifted his head, helplessness overwhelming him. Within a matter of days, he would be required to fight against a people that were not his own by birth, but among whom he had strong ties—ties not easily broken.

He leaned back against the cold stone and closed his eyes, fragments of the past year flooding his mind....

~~~

Water dripping endlessly.

Dampness enshrouding the intermittently-spaced torches.

A foggy glare glistening off wet stone walls.

Muffled cries.

A strange sense of excitement, the like of which he had never felt before—and yet a feeling of horrible dread.

'What be our mission this time?' Justus had asked as he marched swiftly through the dungeons of the fort.

'Boudicca hath been imprisoned,' came the swift reply from the battle-scarred centurion beside him.

'Boudicca—the wife of Prasutagus, king of the Iceni?'

'Aye, the same.'

'What means her presence here, then?' Justus turned his body sideways to squeeze through a doorway.

The other man shrugged. 'I know not. 'Tis none of my concern. We—' he paused to grab the ring of keys on his belt— 'have more important business.'

'Like what?'

'Like what?' The man threw his head back and laughed. 'What dost thou think? Her daughters are here. General Aquinas wants them murdered—but he did not forbid us to have some fun first.'

Justus stared for a moment before he understood. A burning wave of shame swept over him and he laughed awkwardly. He knew not how else to respond without being ridiculed.

As they entered the cell, the centurion turned to him. 'Well, which one dost thou prefer?'

Justus blinked in the gloom. Two girls, one no more than a child, stared at them, terror in their eyes. 'The older one.' The words were out of his mouth before he realized it.

His companion grunted and stepped forward, taking up the little girl and swinging her over his shoulder. Her frightened screams tore through the air as he carried her off, but he paid no mind.

Justus gawked at the girl in front of him, his ears still ringing with her sister's shrieks. This was wrong.

His mouth was dry, and he was none too confident with the Celtic tongue, but he doubted the girl could understand Latin. 'Dewch yma,' he said softly.

She stared back, a whimper escaping her lips.

Justus ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and switched to his mother tongue. 'I want to help thee.'

The girl only blinked in confusion.

Taking the time to explain himself would be useless. If he did not leave soon, someone else would come to claim her.

Stepping forward, he tore a strip from his tunic and tied it over her mouth to muffle her screams. Then he threw his cloak around her and swung her over his shoulder, leaving the filthy cell.

Once out of the dungeons, he made his way to the back entrance of the fort. When the sentry's back was turned, he slipped through the small postern gate. Then he broke into a run, slinking through the deserted streets and never stopping until he reached the fields beyond the town, where he set down his burden and undid the gag around her mouth.

Now in the light, he could see the pale beauty that had been obscured by prison gloom. Tawny braids fell to her waist, and the white sun glistened in her green-gold eyes, which shimmered like glowing bronze. A crystal tear slipped down her freckled face. She clenched her hands at her sides, fear and anger burning in her glance.

'Do not be afraid; I will not hurt thee.' He shook his head, remembering. 'Thou dost not understand what I say.'

'I know the tongue,' came the soft, halting reply. Her voice was like a stream over stones, smooth and icy cold. 'Why wouldst thou rescue me?'

'Because—I... Because to do any less would be wrong.'

'What is thy name?'

He blinked. 'Justus Julius Septimius. And thine?'

'Brenyn.'

He hesitated before speaking again. They were far from Iceni lands, and the Romans would certainly come after her if they discovered that she was still alive.

'Brenyn, thou must come with me,' Justus said urgently, holding out his hand.

She took it, her hand small and fragile in his large, calloused one. 'Where wilt thou take me?'
'To a British hunting companion of thine own tribe. I am certain he will keep thee safe until thou canst return home. Now come....'

~~~

Justus opened his eyes. How simple everything had seemed then—simple, and yet not so. His mother had raised him to know what was right, what was courteous, but even now he sometimes wondered if the consequences were worth what he had done.

Gazing into Brenyn's green-gold eyes in the weeks that followed the escape, Justus knew that he could never love another as he did her. Though Roman soldiers could not legally marry under Roman law, many of them had common-law wives. And so Justus wedded Brenyn according to the laws of her people, and she bore him a son.

He had kept all of this hidden from his fellow legionaries for a year now, especially from his uncle, who was known for his hatred of the British. With war on the horizon, if someone found out that he was wed to Boudicca's daughter, Justus would be considered guilty of treason. But he had to warn Brenyn of what was coming. He had sworn to protect both her and their child, and not even his loyalty to Rome could come before that oath.

He rose from his cot and crossed the ground between his barracks and the legate's lodging. As head of the legion, the legate was permitted a larger and better living space than his officers, yet the dim room was lit only by a small window in the outside wall and an oil lamp on the legate's table.

Justus raised his hand in a stiff salute. 'Ave, Quintus.'

The young legate raised his head. 'Ave, Justus. What brings thee here?'

'I wish to beg leave for a few hours.'

Quintus' cold, dark eyes looked him over for several seconds. 'Where wilt thou go?'

'Since when does the legate require such information?' Justus took pains to speak respectfully, but he could not help the undertone of urgency which crept into his voice.

'Since I received news of the Trinovantes' uprising. I cannot suffer news of our march upon them to be made known. And I know that thou hast many friends among the Britons.'

'If I swear by Mithras that I will breathe no word of our counter-attack at Camulodunum, wilt thou let me go?'

Several tense moments passed. Cold sweat trickled down Justus's back, but he looked Quintus steadily in the eye.

At last, the legate straightened and clasped his hands on the table before him. 'I know thee to be a man who abides by thy word. If thou wilt swear by Mithras, I will permit it. But thou must be back before curfew.'

'I swear by Mithras that I will speak nothing concerning our plans for attack, to Briton or Roman.'

'Very well.' The legate returned his attention to the parchment before him, signaling with his hand for Justus to depart.

Justus saluted once more and then left, marching with long strides to the gate and the town beyond.

'Halt! What be the password?' the guard shouted from atop the gate, shattering the peaceful evening silence.

Justus checked at the sentry's loud voice, hesitating a moment as his mind raced to remember the two words that would allow him entry beyond the garrison's walls.

'Caligo sanguis.' Blood mist.

Justus was struck with the irony of it all, but did not have time to dwell on it. A moment later, the gates opened and the young centurion passed through, walking purposefully through the cluttered streets of Durovernum Cantiacorum.

Away from the marketplace, the Roman buildings disappeared. Only the round, earthen huts of the Britons remained, scattered here and there with smoke rising lazily from their thatched roofs. As in all things, it seemed, the British peoples remained resilient against Roman rule, quietly living as if the Roman invasion had never taken place. Justus wondered how many of these Celts would join up against his cohort when they learned of the coming attack.

Within a few minutes, he reached the bothy on the outskirts of the town and knocked firmly on the door. The tiny street was deserted at this hour of the day, since most were supping the evening meal.

The door opened to reveal the pale features of his friend Halwyn. 'Justus. What bringeth thee here at this time?'

'I cannot discuss it out in the open.'

Halwyn nodded and opened the door wider.

Justus slipped inside and blinked as darkness descended. Yellow light from the center hearth spilled onto the floor, illuminating the simple interior. In one corner was a loom, and in another lay straw pallets stacked upon each other. Halwyn's wife was bent over the fire, stirring something that bubbled and filled the air with a mouth-watering smell. Yet Justus's gaze merely brushed over these things, seeking for the shadow that arose at his entrance and came towards him.

He embraced Brenyn tightly, feeling her slender form tremble slightly as she breathed. Releasing her, he spoke softly in the Celtic tongue. 'Brenyn, I need to speak with thee.'

'Speak. I am listening.'

Glancing at Halwyn and his wife, who attempted to give them privacy, Justus motioned for Brenyn to sit back down in the corner. He inhaled deeply before speaking, feeling ever more strongly the desperation of the situation. 'Hast thou received recent news from thy mother?'

Brenyn's gaze flickered up and met his. 'If thou speakest of the rebellion, I have indeed received news of it. But my mother has not sent word to me since I wrote to her of my safe presence in Durovernum Cantiacorum.' She hesitated in speaking the long Roman name.

'Brenyn.' He took her cold, slender hands and held them gently. 'My legion, as much of us as are stationed here, must fight thy people a few days hence to liberate the town they have captured.'

Anger flashed in her eyes. 'My people are only taking revenge for what they have lost. Surely thee, of all the Romans, would best understand why they do this.' Her next words were forced out between clenched teeth. 'Thy people raped and murdered my sister before my mother's eyes, treated my mother shamefully, and whipped her besides. They stole our lands and enslaved my people...' Her voice softened. 'Thou wert not like them and for that I forgave thee. Thou lovest me, and I thee. But it changes not what they have done.'

'I know.' Justus pursed his lips in silence. 'Should I fight alongside my men, I would be slaying thy kind. And should I keep loyalty to thy tribe, I would be accounted a traitor to my own...I am caught between two worlds. There is no place for me in this, and yet I have no choice. I cannot shirk my duty. Cowardice is looked on kindly by neither thy people nor mine.'

The anger was gone from her eyes now, and only a bitter pain remained in its stead—the same pain that throbbed in his own chest and caught in his throat.

'I understand,' she said.

He gazed into her eyes and tried to memorize every detail of her fair face, knowing he might never see her again. 'I fear for thee. Wrathful men do not see reason, and they will slay all in their path.'

'Where will I go? There is no place for me, just as there is none for thee.'

Neither of them spoke for a time, Brenyn waiting for an answer, and Justus knowing there was none to give.

'I will do what I can,' he said at last. 'I must go; I have to return before curfew. I shall attempt to send word before we march.' He rose to his feet.

Halwyn and his wife glanced up from their stew as he rose, then returned to their food, still attempting to give Justus and Brenyn an appearance of privacy.

The babe in the cradle at his feet whimpered, and Brenyn bent to pick him up. 'Say farewell to thy son before thou goest.'

Something within Justus broke and he swallowed hard. He took the child in his arms, feeling the vividness of living warmth envelop him. He stared into his son's large, dark eyes and the child blinked, another mewl escaping his tiny mouth. Black, silky feathers of hair brushed against Justus' arm, soft against his skin. He bent and kissed his son's forehead before returning him to his mother, regret staining this bittersweet farewell.

Justus watched his wife as she placed the babe back in his cradle, feeling he had no right to ask affection of her, since soon he would be forced to slay her kinsmen.

She knew this and yet did not shrink away. Locking her arms around his neck, she breathed into his ear, 'When I wed thee, I knew, as perhaps thou didst not, what this might cost me. Now our love must be tested. May it hold strong in the face of bloodshed and cruel loss.'

Words failed him and he did not speak for some time. 'If anything happens and I perish on the battlefield, go to my uncle. Tell him Lucius is his grandnephew. I will send him word by my own hand.' Then he bent and kissed her farewell.