Title: The Rose
Rating: T for themes
Warnings: a little blood? Nothing major, really.
She was rearranging the bunch of grapes on the table. Midafternoon. She'd already swept the quarters and everything was quite neat. Crispin - her master - seemed to like those things.
When she was alone, she was thinking of him by name, though she never inferred that he was anything other than her superior. She was humming a tune, was she - strangely happy?
He wasn't looking at her - not like that. Did she want him to? She still wasn't sure. Maybe if he did she'd know.
"Rosina!" He called for her, flung open the door.
He was in a hurry.
"Yes, master." Her head snapped to attention. He never came to his quarters in the middle of the day. Was something wrong?
"My armor." He was in his comfortable daily dress - the tunic. He'd gone out early, hadn't bothered to awaken her.
She went to the storage room to fetch it, knowing that action was more critical than pleasantries. Of saying yes and titles.
She made it in one trip, though it was cumbersome. She fitted the breastplate first, the effigy of Medusa gaping dully. While he held the front, she tied the back to it, making swift, careful knots.
"Is your horse saddled for you?"
"Yes." He seemed absent. As though he were thinking.
"Are you going for long?"
"Shouldn't be. Perhaps a day." he didn't elaborate, which meant she shouldn't ask. Which meant the mission was dangerous. "Do you want your cloak?" She was already taking it off it's hook, shaking out the fabric and holding it open.
"Yes, Rosina. Thank you." He shrugged it on, pulling the brown homespun over his head. Carrying the helmet under his arm.
That confirmed what he'd told her in detail - it was dangerous. It meant no questions. She smiled tightly. "You be safe, master. The gods go with you." She knew that's what they said. Even if she didn't believe they ever cared for humankind.
He hummed and nodded. "Don't wait up with the lamps too late into the night. If not tonight, then tomorrow."
She watched him go - the robe fluttering behind him. Clutching his orders in his fist. She turned to the balcony, watching him stride across the courtyard.
A young soldier held the reins. Likely the groom. The guard sergeant had already mounted. Words were exchanged, likely blessings called upon by the gods. A salute - and the commander urged his horse into a gallop as he rode out of the gate - the guard sergeant close behind.
She turned away. Why did the quarters feel so strangely empty without him? She knew the commander would not ride off unless it was vitally important.
After rearranging his records, sweeping yet again, and polishing his corona obstensinalis, she ate in the servant's kitchen that night, feeling lost.
She still made preparations in case he were to return that night, though she did not dare expect it. A kettle of water boiling in the fireplace for his feet or any other reason - if he wanted to bathe afterwards, perhaps.
She set out a single lamp, letting it flicker out into the courtyard blazing with torches. Watching the balcony. It was cold - bitterly cold - not unusual for late winter, but her breath was still frosty in the out-of-doors. She'd wrapped herself in the spare cloak - it was crimson, but it smelled like how his bed sheets did - of his horse and fresh air … and cedar. It was strangely comforting, even though her hands were numb before she went inside.
"Ho, rider!" the guard called. The guard issued a challenge and the rider called up his own. The gates opened - and though his face was obscured by the brown cloak over his head, it had to be him.
She made sure the grapes were arranged properly, the wine set out, a hearty chunk of bread.
She had the door open barely before he had lifted his fist to knock. He smiled tiredly, entering the quarters. He was spattered with blood, not likely his own, as there only seemed to be a gash on his forehead. His shoes were caked with mud - mingled with whoever's blood had spattered on him.
"Hot water, master? Bath perhaps?" She asked, handing him the cup of wine and he let her remove the armor. She would have a long job of polishing tomorrow.
"Exhausted," he said. "I trust you've been well."
"Yes, sir."
He sat on the couch wearily and she began untying his boots - which proved to be quite a chore, undoing her secure knots through the caked mud. "It - went well. Considering. We only lost one man, but they lost several. We managed to capture the rebel leader, and two of his sergeants. They'll be in the prison tomorrow."
Crispin had gone on several quests over the past two months trying to track the sicarius.
"That's good then," she said, placing his feet in the scented water, at first checking to make sure it wouldn't scald, but was quite hot just the same.
He didn't verbally acknowledge her actions, but he looked quite visibly relaxed.
"There's a reason we didn't kill him on the spot - though we were certainly capable of such an action. Rome has seen blood on his hands, and now she wants - or more accurately the prefect wants - blood in return. They believe strongly in their cause for independence, but they are not free to make that choice. Prefect wants a more public example. The condemnation will be quick, the evidence against him is overwhelming. If there even is a trial."
"The prefect doesn't -"
"At times no. He's been warned already about his habits. His position is in jeopardy. So we can expect trouble."
"From the Jews?"
He smiled bitterly, though there was no hate or vengence in his tone. "You can always expect trouble from them. Their leaders like to take advantage of a tumultuous situation. And it's only right - I suppose if I were one of them and they were my people I would behave the same."
Though she didn't comment on what he said, she considered his words, as she finished drying his feet with a towel. "That's a nasty cut master," she observed cautiously, wetting another towel in the fresh hot water. "Do you -"
"Yes, you may tend to it." He closed his eyes, more for purposes of respect than it stung. He never wanted her to feel as though he were staring at her. He knew she didn't like to be stared at.
"It's at least not as bad as it looks," she said, finishing her work. It was really only a scratch.
"You should see the rebel - no, never mind." he had begun his comment with jest, but cut it off.
Though she was a woman, the thought of another's blood spraying him while he attempted to kill the commander was really not that gruesome. "It was necessary. He would have killed you." More concern than she meant showed through her tone, and she turned back to gather the towels and tend to the dirtied water.
"Let Quintus attend to that in the morning. It's late."
She raised her gaze, expecting him to still be leaning back, at rest, but he was looking at her, and their eyes locked for a moment.
The first thing he noticed were her eyes. They were the color of darkened honey.
His eyes seemed more tinged with gray - before she dropped her gaze. This wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to care about someone like this. He lived a dangerous life in a dangerous province. He could be reassigned, or wind up killed by angry rebels - as he almost had been.
"Excuse me. Master." She bowed lightly, and fled to her quarters, shutting the door behind her.
He wouldn't come after her - he said that was the place he didn't go - he wouldn't interfere.
She couldn't have feelings for him.
She sat on her mattress, pulling her knees up. That's when she realized she'd forgotten the lamp, and was sitting in darkness.
Glossary:
Sicarius, pl. Sicarii - assassin.
Corona obstensianalis - an award won for bravery in battle, likely a wreath of some sort, probably metal.