surely this had to be a good sign, his coming to greet her with an honour guard of soldiers.
‘Are we close to the wall?’ She asked the first question that sprang into her mind.
‘About ten miles away.’
‘So close? Then we should be there before nightfall.’
‘Even sooner. It’s barely half a day’s march from here, lady. We’ll get you there for dinner.’
‘Thank you.’
She smiled nervously and he reached up to remove his helmet, revealing a head of light brown hair, close-cropped like most soldiers’, above a ruggedly handsome face, with prominent cheekbones, a slightly crooked nose that looked as if it must have been broken at some point and a resolute-looking jaw. Judging by the ingrained frown lines between his brows, he didn’t smile very often, but taken as a whole his face was stern, not cruel, as if whatever burden he carried—and she had the sudden conviction that he carried something—was his alone.
He wasn’t as young as she’d feared he might be either. Tarquinius had said that he was newly enrolled in the army, but the man before her looked both older and more experienced, closer to her own age of twenty-four than that of a raw recruit. The realisation was both a relief and a fresh source of anxiety. After marriage to a man almost three times her age, the last thing she’d wanted was to go to the other extreme and marry a boy—something this soldier most definitely wasn’t—though there was something powerfully disconcerting about him, too.
There was his sheer size, to begin with. Even without his helmet he was as tall as the next tallest of his men, with broad shoulders and, she couldn’t help but notice, an almost equally wide torso. Then there was his overtly military appearance. His long blue cloak, trimmed with a yellow band and fastened at the front with a bronze fibula, was swept back over his shoulders, revealing a contoured breastplate and metal greaves over a pair of form-fitting braccae that only emphasised his muscular thighs. He’d placed his oval shield to one side, but he was still holding a spear, allowing her a glimpse of hefty forearms decorated with bronze armillae, decorations for valour, as well as an intricate silver scabbard on the left side of his belt, paired by a dangerous-looking dagger and three-foot-long vitis on the right.
She curled her fingers into her palms, beset by a confusing blend of emotions. Ironically, now that she’d discovered they weren’t in any danger, she felt as though she were under a different kind of attack. Her legs felt as weak and tremulous as if she’d just run a race and she felt too hot all over, as if it were the middle of summer and not a mild spring day. Julius had never made her feel this way, not even at the start of their marriage, as if her abdomen were full of tiny, fluttering butterflies, each of them beating their wings in unison. She’d never been so keenly physically aware of another person. Could this Centurion tell? Was it obvious?
It felt obvious, as if her body’s shameful reaction were writ clear on her face for everyone to see, but at least he was her betrothed, the man she’d come to marry. That was her one consolation. If he’d been anyone else, she might surely have died of shame on the spot.
‘I’m honoured to meet you, Lucius Scaevola.’ She addressed him by name at last. ‘We’re grateful for your escort.’
The Centurion didn’t answer at first, his only reaction being a slight tightening of his jaw muscles, and Livia felt a hot pink flush spread up over her cheeks and into her hairline until surely the skin beneath clashed with her curls. Had she displeased him by speaking? Staring into those deep, dark eyes, she had no idea what he was thinking, but surely she hadn’t said anything so shocking?
‘Pardon, lady—’ his stern features became even sterner than before ‘—but my name is Marius Varro, Second Centurion of the Fourth Cohort of the Sixth Legion. I’m here to escort you and your men the rest of the way to Coria.’
‘Varro?’
Her voice seemed to have abandoned her again, emerging as a stricken whisper while she stared at him in dismay. His name was Varro? For some inexplicable reason, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be her future husband. She’d simply assumed that he’d be the man who’d come to greet her—and then once she’d seen him she hadn’t thought to question his identity at all. Perhaps because she hadn’t wanted to.
She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. As it turned out, it wasn’t actually possible to die from shame and mortification, or disappointment for that matter, though continuing to talk to him at that moment seemed just as terrible.
‘You mean...’ somehow she forced her eyelids open ‘...you’re not Lucius Scaevola?’
‘No, lady.’ His tone was brisk now, as if he were trying to dispel her embarrassment. ‘He’s waiting for you in Coria.’
‘Oh... I see.’
She stiffened at the sound of Tullus smirking beside her, obviously enjoying the scene. No doubt he’d enjoy telling Tarquinius about it, too, at some later date. They could both laugh at her together... She felt her insides plummet, the ball of tension she’d carried all the way from Lindum curling up like a fist in her belly. But what was one more humiliation, after all? Where men were concerned, she’d already experienced so many. She ought to be immune to the feeling by now, though having this Centurion be a witness to it made her feel even worse somehow.
‘Is something amusing?’
She froze at the glacial tone of his voice, half-opening her mouth to protest before she realised he was speaking to Tullus.
‘No, sir.’ Her escort jumped to attention, visibly startled.
‘Then perhaps you can explain to me why you’re laughing?’
‘I...’ Tullus spluttered ineffectively. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Are you?’ The Centurion’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘If I had time, I’d make sure of that fact. You’re lucky I don’t. Now get your men ready. We’re leaving.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Livia felt the corners of her mouth tug upwards as her escort scuttled away like a frightened rabbit. He wouldn’t be telling that to Tarquinius! She’d never seen him respond to orders so quickly.
‘Your men are insolent.’ The Centurion turned back to face her and her smile faded at once.
‘They’re not my men. They’re my brother’s.’
‘All the more reason for them to treat you with respect.’
She gave a murmur of assent, unable to frame an answer to that. Tullus simply took his cue from Tarquinius. He knew exactly how much respect her half-brother would expect him to show, as well as how much he could get away with.
‘We’ll march for another hour and then rest.’ The Centurion—what had he called himself again? Varro?—surveyed the woodland on either side of them suspiciously. ‘If that’s convenient to you, of course?’
She blinked, surprised to be consulted. ‘Yes, if you think
