Melania tried moving her right leg to ease the cramping and banged her knee against the rough wall of the hypocaust instead. Reaching down to rub the throbbing joint, she managed to wedge her hand against her rib cage so that she could hardly breathe and then scraped off half the skin on the back of her hand as she wrenched it free. As tight as the hypocaust was, it in no way warmed her. Through the funnelling of the hypocaust, she could hear the scrape of movement above her. And the crackle of fire. It would be wonderful to bake herself warm in front of a fire, her very own fire in her very own house, its light warming the room as much as its heat. It was very cold in the underground hypocaust and very dark.
Her father was dead. This she knew. She had heard their full-throated cry, like wolves howling in animal unison; she knew it meant the Saxons had won. In the winning, they would have killed. It was their way.
Was it night? Probably. They had attacked at the cusp of daylight and darkness. It must be full dark now or perhaps even morning. She had no sense of the passage of time and the raging heat of her fury had hardened to a cold knot of revenge fed by pride. They would not gain a victory over her and they would never defeat Rome. She was hidden, her father's plan, but now it would work for her. Let them think they had won. She had eluded them and they didn't even know it. Stupid barbari. They would move on, rampaging some other poor villa or town, as was their barbaric way, and she would emerge and build her life back to what it once was. They had most assuredly damaged the villa, they were just the sort of stupid oafs to do such a thing, but that only meant that she would have the freedom to rebuild in a more aggressive fashion. Let them come again. Just let them. She looked forward to it. But they had to leave first.
* * *
Cuthred threw another one of the library scrolls onto the fire. The satisfaction he received from the act was minimal, but all of the bigger items had already been hacked and burned.
"We are finished here. Let's move on," he said.
"You may be finished, but Wulfred is not," Cenred said lightly.
"This place if finished. There is nothing left to take or destroy. I want more fun out of this isle before we return home."
"Cuthred, you have absolutely no ability to entertain yourself. Must there always be a battle found for you? Can you not find other ways to amuse yourself?" Cenred laughed.
"No," Cuthred answered.
"He says no," Balduff said, "and yet I have tried to get him to see the pleasure that a woman can provide. Look at the process as a battle if you must; she has defenses which must be overcome, terrain which must be explored, secrets and hidden places to be revealed. I tell you, a woman can entertain a man for hours before she wears thin!"
"I like battle," Cuthred stated.
"Yes, you like battle, as do I," Balduff said, "but women are more plentiful."
"There cannot always be a battle," Cenred said.
"There is no more battle here. Let's go to a place that can provide one," Cuthred said.
"We will stay until Wulfred says we go," Cynric said.
"Of course," said Cuthred, "but why does he stay? The battle is won. The enemy dead."
"Because," said Cynric, "he does not believe that all of the enemy is dead. Wulfred is more and more certain that there is a woman hiding somewhere, a woman of this house. A Roman woman. He will not leave until he sees her cry for mercy."
"He will grant a Roman mercy?" said Cenred.
"I did not say he will grant it, just that he would see her grovel."
"Placing my foot on a Roman neck would give me great satisfaction," Wulfred said, entering the library holding an ornate woman's comb in his right hand. In his left he held a pot of face powder. There was a woman. He had proof of her existence. All that was left was to find her. Never would he give even one Roman a chance to escape, albeit a woman. It did not matter that she was a woman. All that mattered was that she was a Roman.
Ceolmund entered the library silently, dragging a slave, Greek by the look of him, by the back of the neck. Without a word, he tossed the slave to fall at Wulfred's feet.
"Name," Wulfred said in hesitant Latin.
The man, of average height among his own kind, stared up at the colossus before him. "Theras."
Wulfred nodded in affirmation. It was a Greek name.
"Duty."
Theras swallowed heavily and struggled to keep his breathing regular. Wulfred saw all this. He understood the man's fear. And his struggle to contain it.
"I was companion to the master of this place and also assisted him in..."
"Slow," Wulfred interrupted, his Latin stiff from disuse.
"Companion. Helper."
"Slave," Wulfred added.
Theras bowed his head and said in submission, "Slave."
"The Roman is dead," Wulfred said.
"Yes," Theras said, his expression unchanging.
"The woman hides."
Theras remained silent, his face a mask of blank submission.
"Woman of Rome," Wulfred asked. "Wife, daughter."
"There is no woman," Theras said calmly, his dark eyes as blank as a starless night.
But there was a woman. Wulfred knew it. He sensed her. She was close, close enough to cause the skin on the back of his neck to tingle, but where? The room was empty of hiding places, sheathed in tile with simple wooden shelves for the remaining scrolls and crowded now with the bodies of his men.
"Tell me," he commanded the Greek slave. "Tell me. You are mine."
The Greek lowered his eyes, waiting for the death blow. He lowered his eyes, yet his eyes were not still. Wulfred looked down. In the looking down, he found his answer.
On the floor was a vent, a black hole surmounted by grillwork. A perfect hiding place for a Roman, slithering around in the dark of the dirt like a rat or a snake. Perfect.
"Go," Wulfred commanded the Greek.
Alone, the Saxon warriors said nothing as they looked at the vent and understood its meaning for them in this place of violent defeat. At a gesture from Wulfred, they filed out of the small room. Still silent, they circled the villa. It was Wulfred who found the furnace hugging the rear wall of the dwelling. It was Wulfred who smiled when he saw that the stone was cold and that the ashes had been swept clear. And it was Wulfred who gave the command.
"Light the fire."
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