Serva Capta Ferum Victorem Cepit

Rome. The brightest jewel of civilization. Home. Mother. Empire. If there was ever a place that was it's antithesis, it was this freezing, damp, bog filled Hell they called Caledonia. Quintus Aelius Corax was born a slave. Though he only wore that title for a day his father's master, a very successful merchant from Augusta Taurinorum freed him and his family on the day of his birth. Fifth born son, third to survive boyhood, to a freed slave, Quintus turned to the legions as a way to advance in life. The military suited him perfectly. He was strong, smart, and a disciplined fighter. He received the cognomen Corax for both his coal black hair and for having been the sole survivor of a cohort that had held their position against unbelievable odds. When the siege was finally broken after five days, the only living things left to be found were gravely wounded Quintus and the ravens feasting upon the dead. Since that day he had moved steadily through the ranks until he had found himself appointed primus pilus of the Ninth Legion, the Bulls of Eboracum.

Today, the Bulls would once again be tested in the North. As the rain fell onto the muddy ground, he looked back over the precise and disciplined ranks aligned behind him then towards the mass of barbarians that rushed towards them, eager to meet their death.

He hated this miserable, ungrateful place. Londinium at least had some comforts, even though it was still being rebuilt after Boadicea's rampages of 10 years ago. As a Roman he found it difficult to admire any woman, though there were exceptions to every rule and he did admire anyone who could rout a Roman Legion and in no small way. He owed his name to her. These Caledonians were certainly the exception on this island. Every other people had laid down their arms and accepted the Pax Romana and all the luxuries and wealth that came with it. Though as barbarous and stubbourn as they were, they were good fighters. Much like the other Gauls, they delighted in battle and much like the other Gaul's they were undisciplined and as likely to fight each other as the Legions. Though unlike other Gaul's they would simply not yield. It was foolish, it was stubborn, and though he did not like to admit it, he admired them for it even though it meant he had to stay here admiring them.

The clash was deafening. It always was. The only way to defeat the legion was to break the tortoise. The only way the Caledonians had found to do so, was to crush it beneath the weight of their dead. Once it was no longer able to move, it would be vulnerable, or at least as vulnerable as a wounded, angry bull ever became.

There was only one thing more stubborn and willful than all the warring tribes of Caledonia, only one thing he dreaded more than yet another march to meet those ungrateful savages in battle: that damned Hibernian girl. The worst part of it all was that she had been a gift! His valour, his courage and his discipline had earned him the rank of primus pilus. Though many believed saving the life of an Imperial Senator and retrieving the Aquila may have had something to do with it as well. He had been brought to Rome on furlough with the Senator to be presented to the Emperor himself. The wonders of that city were beyond count. The buildings, the press of people, the food, the circus all were wonders the Senator showed him. These, he thought, were gifts richer than he deserved but upon his return he was presented with a gift, a servant to cater to his every whim. She had been the slave of a Caledonian noble, or at least as noble as these savages could be. He still remembered the day he walked into his room to find her there. She had taken his breath away. Long hair, as black as midnight, falling past her waist in an intricate braid. Her skin was radiant. But it was her eyes. He had never seen eyes such as hers. Bright, shining, and green as emerald. The only thing marring those eyes was the raging storm of hatred he saw reflecting from them.

The tortoise survived the first assault. Quintus screamed the orders over the crack of thunder and the formation moved forward, trampling the dead beneath their sandled feet. Looking out over his shield he saw them massing again. He knew his men were exhausted but they must not yield.

"You see that boys, Zeus himself has come to this battle to see us fight. Let's give him a show!"

The men of his cohort shouted defiance as they moved forward in perfect unison.

She had stood before him, defiant, head held high, angry eyes daring him to meet her gaze. He dared, he met them and he knew the battle would never be won and that it would cost him dearly. Still, Quintus was not a man who backed away from a fight. He asked for her name.

"Brannagh."

She never answered him with more than a single word, when she deigned to speak to him, preferring to simply nod. She also flatly refused to speak Latin though it was clear she understood everything he said to her. She did exactly as he asked but always, those eyes would never yield her hatred of him. He took that hatred as a challenge. He would soften those eyes if it took him a lifetime. Of course a lifetime of soldiery did not make it an easy task. His knowledge of women extended to washer women and brothel whores. He did not know what else to do, other than to try to make her more comfortable. Very few comforts were to be found in this place, but he made any he could lay his hands on available to her. Every attempt was met with disdain and those eyes, like daggers of green ice. But like every other challenge in his life he would never yield until he tasted victory. No matter how frustrating she became he never raised his voice let alone his hand to her. Yet still the hatred remained in her eyes. Of course he knew what he must give her.

They were now mired in a bog. The assaults had not been to soften them up but to move them into the bog. He saw now, far too late, the planks the barbarians had used to keep themselves out of the mire. He had underestimated their tactics and it would cost him dearly. The planks were too far apart for his own men to use and stay in formation. They would have to break the tortoise and fight on the barbarians terms or die.

He brought her a gown from Londinium, a vibrant green to match her eyes. She wore it willingly and she looked every bit a Roman Lady but still the eyes were full of hate for him. He bought her perfumes, jewels and everything a woman might desire and he still managed to make no headway. Still she attended to him in silence and hatred. He tried to learn her language but this was greeted with scorn and contempt. At least now he could understand exactly what she was saying to him, though this only added to his misery as he waited for the latest reply from Rome.

They needed to time the break in formation perfectly. Only half his men were truly mired. Would that be enough? He knew his men would not fail him. The barbarians hit the tortoise hard, unable to maneuver, it began to buckle. The panicked shouts of the Romans seemed to lend strength to their enemy's assault.

And so he kept up his efforts for over a year, taking out his frustrations on his men and his enemies. His valour became legendary as he returned from every battle victorious and lauded by his men and commanders. He would return to Brannagh after every battle dirty, bloodied, scared. She would remove his armour. She would draw his bath, tend to his wounds. Her touch on his skin was never gentle nor did she try to cause him undue pain but the hatred was always there. He was certain every grunt of pain she caused him did give her some satisfaction. He longed to hold her, to smell the perfume in her hair but he would not take what was not freely given. And then it came. His last hope. He held it in his trembling hand looking down at the Imperial seal. A minute later, his face lit by the burning parchment, he realized what he would need to do.

The Formation broke in the middle. The barbarians surged into the ranks with screams of triumph swords drawn, ready to drink Roman blood. But their swords were long and the space within the Roman formation was limited. They realized too late that they had not broken the formation, it had swallowed them. Quintus smiled, the gambit had paid off. The Roman gladius was short and within these confines it made short work. The tortoise reformed under Quintus' orders, however more than a dozen legionnaires lay dead and many more were wounded. Quintus felt the blood trickling down his side as he saw another wave of screaming men barreling down upon him. He smiled.

At sunset Brannagh heard the cheers, the roar, the trumpets. Victory. She took the water off the fire and began to draw the bath. She placed her needles and thread on a cloth next to it and sat down and waited. She did not have to wait long. She rose as the door opened but it was not the familiar face of her master that greeted her, it was the Legate. He removed his helmet and looked at her with eyes overwhelmed with suppressed grief. Quintus was not expected to live through the night. He held out a piece of parchment, his will. He read it to her when she made sign that she could not read. She stood, stunned as he read it to her. Roman manumission laws would not allow a man to free his slaves other than in his will, just as Quintus himself had been freed at his master's death. Of course exceptions could be made. After every victory, after every act of unprecedented valour he had asked for dispensation to free her. With each military success he became more renowned and this allowed him to push his case for her manumission further, to more influential Senators. He had pushed himself to the breaking point and had managed to get a letter all the way to the Emperor himself, but to no avail. This time, he had pushed beyond his breaking point.

"He is in the infirmary if you wish to speak with him, though you might wish to hurry."

He had held them together long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Only 15 of his men had died to the hundreds heaped at their feet. Amongst the cheers a cry rang out, the Corax has fallen. He heard those words and wondered what they meant as the blackness overtook him. He awoke to intense pain. The leather strap between his teeth was not unfamiliar to him and he bit deeply into it as the surgeons worked. He now lay on his back, stripped to his tunic, the surgeons had done what they could and from their expressions he knew what would come. He smiled. He turned his head just as she entered. She was radiant, a goddess come to claim him. He had always found her so beautiful in that gown, as she moved closer he could smell the perfume and his smile broadened. He looked up into her green eyes freed from slavery and found they were also freed of their hate. A tear rolled from the corner of his eye.

"I have paid for your freedom with my life, Brannagh. I would have done so sooner, but I was too much a coward."

She took his hand in hers and kissed it. He could feel the tears on his skin.

"I hated that you owned me."

Her Latin was flawed though the lilt in her voice made the words all the more beautiful to be heard.

"I hated that you were kind to me."

"I hated that I feared for your life every time you went into battle."

"And most of all I hated myself for loving you!"

She burst into tears throwing her head against his chest. He winced at the pain yet still he smiled. The warmth of her body against his was a prize long sought and he relished in it. He held her until her sobs subsided. She looked up into his eyes the fire within them more intense than ever.

"And now I will have to hate you for leaving me."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes. She could taste her own tears on his face. His hand slipped into her hair that cascaded around his face, as soft as silk. Yet softer still was her skin as his hard calloused hands held her face. He smiled at her, drinking in her beauty before the darkness took him.

[I]***Author's note: This was where I was going to leave this story but I am a sucker for a happy ending, if you are not, don't read on but if you are like me, please do***[/I]

She wept and prayed to Eriu to save him. Her freedom was not worth his life she would as gladly sacrifice her freedom for him as he had sacrificed his life for her. Eventually her exhaustion overtook her and she slept. She awoke at dawn and ran to the infirmary. The cot was empty. She collapsed in a fit of sobbing and curses. She felt strong arms lifting her off the ground and heard a familiar grunt of pain. She turned. It could not be. She was in Quintus' arms though she could feel his arms shaking at the pain of holding her. He laid her down on the cot. He gently brushed the tears from her eyes.

"I am still too much a coward, Brannagh, can you please forgive me?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. He held her tightly though gingerly to him. For more than a year she had tried her best to hate this man. For more than a year she had fought back every desire she had for him. Like a dam breaking the flood of desire washed over her. She sat up on the cot and opened the front of her gown. Taking his trembling hands in hers she brought them to her breasts. Her head swayed as his strong hands caressed her soft skin and gently rubbed her hard nipples, as his lips gently kissed them. Voices outside the room snapped them both back to reality and she adjusted herself, took him by the hand and quickly lead him back to their quarters.

The door had barely been shut before she stripped him of his tunic. She let out a gasp when she saw the bandaged wound in his side. She kissed him gently and he winced a little. She let the gown fall from her shoulders and stepped towards him. She put her head against his chest as they enjoyed the feeling of their warmth against each other. She listened to his heart beat, strong and even. She let her hands drift across his back. She found all the familiar scars she had seen, some that she herself had stitched. She looked up into his face and hoped he could see the love in her eyes as brightly as she saw it in his. She took his hands again and placed them on her breasts. Though rough, his touch was so gentle, his eyes so kind and loving. She could feel the warmth spread its way down her body, making herself ready for him. And she could feel that he was certainly ready for her. He moaned as her hands moved gently across his member exciting it to spill a droplet of seed. Their eyes remained locked as she gently lead him to his bed and lay him down.

She lay herself beside him as his hand slipped between her legs to find her hot and wet, she ached to feel him. He certainly knew what he was doing and so in tuned to her not needing to speak t make herself understood every moan, every gasp, every look told him everything he needed to know to bring that dull ache deep within her to erupt in a torrent of pleasure. Her hand resumed its work and was soon joined by her lips. His hands moved to her hips and he lifted her so that her knees lay on either side of his head. She had never felt such bliss as when he kissed her then. Her back arched a deep moan escaping her throat. Once the waves of pleasure were once more under control she returned to her task dragging forth a similar moan from him.

He had thought the perfume he had bought her was intoxicating, but the smell of her pleasure mixed with the taste of her was driving him mad. He had known women, but none that had awoken a passion so strong within him. She tasted as sweet as honey and his eager tongue was ever so eager for more. Only stopping when the pleasure of her moth overwhelmed his senses. He was delighted when she climaxed again, sending a flood of nectar. But alas, she wanted more than his tongue and mouth could offer. She turned around, kissed him deeply, the taste of their mixed pleasure was indescribable.

Their eyes locked as she lowered herself onto him. She could feel him, hard, hot and throbbing, filling her completely. She moved gently, fearing he would tear his stitches though he could barely control his movements as he felt her warmth engulf him, tight but yielding. Now and the pain in his side though it flared with every thrust of his hips was easily ignored. She kept trying to restrain him, though she deeply desired to feel his full potency, his strength. She saw the mounting pleasure deep in his eyes and smiled. She longed to feel his seed deep within her. Her desire was granted as he grunted and moaned, the spasms of his pleasure driving her to another climax. She collapsed onto his chest, she felt him still inside her and longed for more. Her heart sank as she heard him grunt. Quickly moving off of him and opening the bandages she saw the bright red blood of a healthy wound.

"You've torn your stitches!"

She let out a deep sigh or relief, there was also no odour of corruption from the wound. It would heal, though she would need to be more gentle with him next time. And that would need to wait, not just for him to recover his stamina, but for her to repair this needlework. She snatched the needle and thread from where she had left them the previous evening. Testing the sharpness with her finger and with the most wicked of smiles, she went to work.

"Not as satisfying as your previous moans, but I think you know how much I love to hear you grunt!"

The sting of the needle meant nothing to him, for the first time, he had seen her smile.