The Lion and the Lark by Doreen Owens Malek Page A

briskly.
         The taller man came forward and said something to Claudius in an undertone.
         Claudius nodded and dropped the napkin to his couch.  “Wait here,” he said, and left the room.
         The two men sneaked looks at Bronwen and then exchanged glances.  The first one whispered something and his companion laughed.
         Bronwen turned her back on them and pretended to be interested in a tray of dried fruit.  She could hear the centurions sniggering behind her, making remarks in a rumbling whisper.  
         Suddenly there was a loud crash and she whirled to see the taller man pinned to the wall with Claudius’ hands at his throat.
         “I heard what you said,” Claudius snarled at him.  The tray he had upended in his rush to get at the soldier came to settle on the floor with a tinny rattle.  “This is my wife, do you understand me?  If I ever hear you say anything like that again I’ll have you transferred to the mines in Numidia.  We’ll see how witty you’ll be when going salt blind in the desert,  supervising convicts who’ll cut your throat for a drink of water in the blistering heat and wishing that I’d had you crucified.”
         The terrified man stared back at Claudius, afraid to speak, while his companion looked on, swallowing hard, grateful that his own sallies had not been overheard.  Two servant girls lingered openmouthed in the hall, fleeing when Claudius stepped back from the centurion.
         Claudius picked up the leather courier pouch he’d been carrying, which had fallen to the floor.
         “Take this and get out of here,” he said curtly, handing it over, not looking at the men again.  “And from now on conduct yourselves like gentlemen in the presence of a lady.”
         The soldiers left rapidly, leaving Claudius alone with Bronwen, who had not moved throughout the incident.
         “I’m sorry,” Claudius said to her quietly.  “I should not have left them alone with you, I wasn’t thinking clearly.  It was stupid of me.”  He sat on the couch across from her and rested his elbows on his knees wearily, his head bent.
         “Claudius, it doesn’t matter.  I didn’t hear what was said.”
         “Good,” he replied shortly.
          “You made too much of it.  Do you think that’s the first time I’ve been subjected to a Roman insult?”
         “It will be the last time in my house,” he said firmly, picking up his goblet and taking a drink.
         Browen leaned forward and touched his hand.  He froze.
         “Why do you care?” she said softly.
         He stared at her, his dark eyes locked with hers.
         “You’re my wife, Bronwen,” he murmured.
         Moved by his words as well as what he had just done, Bronwen said, “Not really.  I’m not really your wife.”
         He curled his fingers around hers, his throat working.  “Do you want to be?” he whispered.
         One of the kitchen skivvies bustled into the room with a platter of vegetables, and the two separated as if caught in a secret tryst.
         “Leave us alone,” Claudius barked in Celtic, and the girl dropped the tray like a hot rock and scurried out of the room.
         But the moment had passed.  Bronwen, alarmed by her own unguarded impulse, rose abruptly and said, “I’m not hungry, I think I will retire early.  Please stay and finish, don’t let me stop you.  I’m sorry to be such a poor dinner companion.  Good night.”
         Bronwen tried not to run from the room, but her departure was hasty.  Claudius watched her go, his expression bleak.  He ignored the trays of food and refilled his goblet, a torrent of conflicting emotions surging inside of him.
         He wanted to get drunk, but was afraid of what he might do when intoxicated.  He needed all the control at his command to restrain himself from going after her.  This was the first glimmer of