` bound like an anchored chain (MARCUS)

[bethan]

- CONTINUED FROM WAITING ON THE SUNSET BORDERLINE -

Bethan and the men she was leading were intercepted by camp guards sooner than she thought they would be, though she couldn't say she was disappointed about the matter. Being out of the company of the strange man was the greatest of her desires, and the sooner her release came, the better. A commanding Saxon soldier rode out to meet them when they were still quite a distance from the camp, and, after over-coming his surprise at seeing the wife of his leader with a Roman legionnaire, agreed to accompany Marcus Taralias to the hut where they met diplomats and various other officials, while she borrowed his horse to ride ahead and inform her husband of the Roman arrival. Turning to the Roman, she said, with little conviction, "Goodnight, Commander," and allowed the Saxon soldier to assist her in mounting the saddle. Casting one last glance over her shoulder at the tall emissary, Bethan urged the horse into a sudden gallop, allowing the wind to attempt to blow away her embarrassment at having been drawn out in such a way.

What seemed to be merely seconds later, Bethan dismounted in the Saxon camp, handing the reins to whichever soldier was closest, and hurrying in the direction of her husbands camp. Night had now fallen entirely, and she found herself submerged in a volley of sounds and smells, most coming from the dinner preparations of the burly Saxon warriors. Knowing the layout of the camp like a well-studied map, Bethan cut between two darkened huts, ducking beneath a line of laundry, and emerged from the shaded alley to a nearly identical street on the opposite side. Without any hesitation, she took a right and followed a cramped and disjointed road towards the center of the camp. Her family's hut rose up in her vision, comparably large, but not by any means substantial. She brushed past the guards, paying them very little mind, whereas, usually, she would stop and have a word with them. But this time, her only interest was finding her husband as quickly as possible. She burst into their hut, greeted with the sight of Cynric and a couple of the other elders, conversing at the table. They looked up as she entered, but her eyes instinctively searched for her son. Finding him sitting off behind his father, she finally turned her attention to the men at the table. "A Roman emissary has just arrived," she said hurriedly, "Bringing with him quite a number of men."

-----

Nearly half an hour later, Bethan emerged from the royal hut, her jaw clenched and her hands balled into fists at her side. The meeting had not gone as she had planned. It was her intent (and serious hope) to never see Marcus Taralias again, but that wasn't in concordance with her husband's plans. He had spoken for a moment, with the gathered elders, and Bethan had waited patiently, allowing her thoughts to wander. She turned her eyes on her young son, and vaguely wondered if he had eaten, before, once again, Cynric commanded her attention. She was to meet with the Roman emissary. She had tried her best to dissuade them from the plan of action, telling them that it was the worst possible scenario. She had known, all the while, that her husband's mind was made up. She had also known, though she refused to admit it, that it was a strategically correct move to make. Sending a wife in stead of the the king put the Romans on uneven ground. It was their best choice, but that didn't change her unwillingness to do it. Speaking to Marcus Taralias for an extended period of time was the most exquisite kind of torture that they could have imagined. But, as her mother had taught her, women sacrificed their own desires for those of their husbands. So she'd bowed and turning away, making sure to ask Cynric to ensure that their son had his dinner, and left the tent.

The hut devoted to negotiations was at the edge of the camp, back in the direction that she'd come. She took several short cuts, slipping through empty courtyards and hopping over low walls. Finally, she rounded a corner and came face-to-face with the very same soldier who had loaned her his horse. She offered him a smile, told him where she'd left his mare, and passed him to the hut where Taralias waited. She reached the door and paused to still her breath and smooth her dark hair, and entered the hut. "Marcus Taralias," she said, choking back her discomfort and showing him a polite smile as she removed her dark cloak, "My husband has been detained, so he has asked me to come in his stead. I hope this doesn't inconvenience you in any way." She discarded her cloak on a chair by the door, stepping further into the room, though her inclination was to retreat. "Have you eaten?"

[cromtheconqueror]

Marcus nodded evenly as the Saxon informed him that he would be permitted only two guards. The Roman truly didn’t care. He had only a mere two hundred men accompanying him now. There would be no chance of defying the Saxon army encamped over yonder if they chose to attack. Two men or two hundred men. It made no difference.

“I need only one man Saxon,” replied Marcus. Inhaling he shouted out into the forest, “Ganfear. Report and accompany me with the Saxon.”

Feeling assured that his Master Scout would not disobey his command. Marcus quickly started down the path, forcing the Saxon to jog to catch up.
They walked for many an hour, passing increasing number of scarred face barbarians as they did so, each one baring an expression of shock that quickly turned to anger.

Marcus ignored them for the most part. To those bold enough to get near him, he chose to simply stare at them with that cold gaze of his, forcing them to duck their hands and slip away. They were nothing more than bullies, thought Marcus with disdain. Bullies who if arrayed against one with spine would simply step away until their chances were nearer to those of their likening.
Eventually, after numerous a stare off, they arrived at the Saxon camp.
Arrayed against the mountains, the palisade settlement resembled more village then camp, with thousands of semi-permanent huts instead of tents and dozens of log cabin food halls instead of mere fire pits. More structures were located in the lower shelving’s of the mountain, and Marcus could only guess that was where they kept the vast majority of their supplies.

Pathetic, thought Marcus.

The entire area was utterly devoid of reason or method. There were no paved roads, no square assemblies. There were no check points or trenches. No towers in which to call order or spy out the direction of an assailant. These barbarians had been here near four years now and this was the epitome of their accomplishments? Had a Roman army been to camp for such a time, the trees around this area would have been leveled, stone walls erected, and a clear cut system of governance and organization formed. It would have been akin to a city, not some backwater shithole not even worthy of a blotch of ink on a map.

“If you will follow me,” commanded the Saxon stiffly.

Nearly fifty men waited at the gates to receive them. Obviously the woman had alerted the camp of their coming, thought Marcus as he walked through the band of leering men, each seeming to be locked in a contest as to who could make the weakest attempt to frighten him.

“In here,” instructed their escort, pointing to the door of a round wooden hut in front of them. Marcus nodded, stepping inside the shack, noting that the man had not indicated when Cynric would be meeting them. O well, thought Marcus. He could wait.

"Marcus Taralias," murmured a familiar voice behind him. No…

The Roman whirled around to stare straight at Bethan, Queen of the Saxons. "My husband has been detained, so he has asked me to come in his stead. I hope this doesn't inconvenience you in any way,” explained the woman, discarding her cloak on a chair by the door, stepping further into the room. "Have you eaten?"

Attempting to not reveal his shock, Marcus offered only silent shake of his head, all the while cursing Cynric. Damn that barbarian bastard! He would be doing this just too slight him! Pausing to reassert control of himself, Marcus reminded himself that the man would get his due in good time. In fact that thought alone allowed the Roman crack a small smile, “It is pleasure to see you again Bethan. I must admit I was distraught at your sudden fleeting from my company before, though I am sure it was for a good reason.”

[ganfear]

"I need only one man, Saxon." said the Legionis confidently. He turned in Ganfear's general direction, which happened to be thirty yards off to the southwest. "Ganfear. Report and accompany me with the Saxon!" he shouted, trusting his voice to carry. It did. Ganfear un-knocked the arrow from his bowstring, glancing once more at the Saxon before lowering his bow from eye-level. With these uncivilized fools, it never hurt to be prepared for some act of stupidity of their ilk.

He shadowed his Legionis from twenty yards, moving as silently as his considerable skills would allow. He caught sight of dozens of sentries. It was pathetic, he could have killed each and every one of them without raising a single alarm from the others.

"A visible sentry is a dead sentry." he muttered to himself. It was a lesson he had learned long ago, and had taught to both allies and enemies numerous times. Four years had made the Saxons soft. Four years of terrorizing cowed settlers had allowed them to forget the lessons of combat. He almost laughed out loud at the Saxon attempts at showing an intimidating front. It might work on cowardly briton farmers, but it was a joke at best to seasoned fighting men. He also assumed that Taralias' thoughts mirrored his own.

Nearly as hilarious, once it came into view, was the Saxon camp. It appeared to be random, tents thrown up haphazardly with neither rhyme, nor reason, nor even a comical whimsy to their placement. Ganfear had expected a massive fortified hamlet of some sort, complete with stone walls and wooden palisades, spiked trenches and guarded checkpoints. Again, Ganfear chided the Saxons on their unpreparedness. This shone even more poorly on the Briton King. Surely the man had at least a regiment of Comintanses under his command, and with such might, he most assuredly could have crushed such a crude and unorganized horde in a single battle. Had the man forgotten the strategies of Rome, that had served to crush Barbarians and their ilk for nigh on 6 centuries? Were the Britons so frail?

Had he half the numbers of the Saxon horde, perhaps a third, Ganfear had little doubt that Taralias could break this 'army', could it even earn the name, within a month.

He sprinted out of the woods, staying low, and dove over the crude mud-and-dirt road that served as a rough border for the camp. He shadowed around a tent, before grabbing a handhold on the rough wooden palisade and throwing himself over it. He watched as an armed band of over-muscled Saxons confronted the Legionis at the gate. Perhaps two-score of the bastards, and from their shoddy arms and the way they carried themselves, Ganfear figured they were worth less than a dozen of his men.

He dropped onto the other side of the wooden barrier as silently as he could, and was satisfied when he saw nobody moving to confront him. He clambered down, and watched as the Legionis was herded into a small wooden hut. He ran crouched down, until he reached them side of a similar hut, across another of the crude roads from the one that held his charge, before taking a moment to observe the hut. He watched the Saxon guide leave the hut, sneering at the relief he saw on the man's face. He watched for a few minutes more, and seeing nothing of particular interest, he glanced down both sides of the road.

He was about to sprint across the road, when he saw another figure move towards the tent. This one was a woman, from the way it walked, and upon closer observation, he knew it to be the one who had met Taralias earlier. He might have taken a moment there to admire the woman, were she not dressed in a homely smock of utterly boring cut. It was a shame, in his opinion, as the woman probably had a nice set of curves.

He frowned as the woman opened the door and walked in Taralias did not like her, and with good reason, he believed. He gathered himself again, and quickly ran to the side of the hut, where he drew himself in for a moment, assuring he was not spotted. There, he grinned. Taralias probably wouldn't approve, but Ganfear knew their was an easier way to deal with barbarians than diplomacy. He drew himself up to his full height, stretched a bit to release the tautness in his muscles, and knocked on the door of the hut.

[bethan]

From the quick, abrupt way that Marcus Taralias turned around, it was clear that he wasn't expecting-- and wasn't happy-- to meet her again so soon. That brought Bethan a moment of pleasure, though it was fleeting and unsatisfying. She wouldn't know pleasure until this man was very far away from the Saxon camp. That, though, was a seemingly indefinite date. A week? A month? Would they be dead before then? Possibly. She wasn't consumed, like most Saxons, with the illusion that they were an indomitable force. With each victory, she sensed the bitter taste of defeat in the back of her throat, and she knew that that sensation would not go away until the war was over. So, there was a chance that she would be plagued by Marcus Taralias until the end, though, now that she was placed as the arbiter of the negotiations (even if her husband would later approve them himself), his chances of a successful campaign had been slimmed by half. Perhaps she would be done with him before sunrise.

With the self-assuredness of a creature in its own element, Bethan stepped over to the fire, warming her hands in the radiating waves of heat. "If you are hungry, I can have some dinner brought for you," she offered, "It would only take a word." In spite of her dislike of the man, Bethan's nature won over. She would've, in theory, gladly seen him go hungry. But in practice, it was difficult for her to withhold courtesy from someone who, however slightly, she considered a guest. Admittedly, she didn't have much to offer him-- the Saxons weren't much for frills. They were purely efficient, a well-oiled machine that didn't bother itself with formality, but with function. The moment something ceased to be proficient, it was disposed of. Salt and other various seasonings were unnecessary expenses, an extra load, and all-around too much of a commodity to be bothered with. If it wasn't something she could admire, it was something that she could respect. Pomp and circumstance mattered little to them-- they didn't need for their camp to be impressive or well-organized. It was a place where they slept, no more, no less. Their fighting techniques were of similar form; mercy and compassion were eliminated and replaced with cold, methodical killing. Even if their techniques were considered crude, they were certainly effective.

At the Roman's next words, Bethan straightened, brushing back the dark curtain of her hair that had fallen over her shoulder. Her eyes remained on the fire, though the inclination of her head indicated that her attention was focused on the man. "I would have gladly stayed and accompanied you the remainder of the way, Commander. But I felt the need to inform my husband of your arrival personally. And," she said, "I had to see to it that my son was fed his dinner. My husband has a habit of overlooking such menial things." The latter statement, while delivered with maternal innocence, served as a means of backing up her husband's message; Marcus Taralias was of little importance to the Saxon camp. "Now," she said, taking on a brisk tone, "Are you here to declare pre-disposed terms, or is this a meeting to determine the context of our similarity of cause?" Still, she didn't meet his crystalline gaze, preferring, instead, to keep her eyes on the fire, as if mesmerized. Her brief meeting with her husband, with his dark and predatory nature, had somewhat fortified her, but she felt that things would run smoother if she avoided his gaze.

That precaution, though, was forgotten when a knock came at the door. Bethan raised her head slowly to look at Marcus Taralius, her eyes sharp, but unreadable. It wouldn't be one of her men; they knew not to interrupt negotiation processes, unless it was something urgent. And her husband or one of his siblings would have simply entered, without the preamble of a knock. She stared at the Roman for a moment, her gaze dark and searching. Finally, with purposeful strides, she crossed to the door and opened it without hesitation. Before her stood a man who, though he wasn't near as tall as Marcus Taralias, was a great deal broader. His hair, lank and dark, hung well down his back, nearly as long as hers. Bethan felt no sort of fear at the sight of him; she was, after all, living in a camp of equally large men, and married to the cruelest of them. She stood in the doorway, obscuring his view of the interior room, her eyes smoldering. "Yes?" she asked, her neutral tone belying her demeanor.

[cromtheconqueror]

At the woman’s offer of dinner, Marcus smiled.

“Thank you, but I’d hate to forestall these negations for even a seconds moment, as it stands I shall simply eat at my own camp.”

It wasn’t that he was unwilling to dip to the depths of their consumption of choice. As a soldier, he was used to making due with whatever was around. But though the offer seemed genuine -in fact had Marcus not spoken to the woman before he would have almost believed it was the demure and honest thing it appeared to be- the last thing he needed was to be drugged up by some tribal herb stuck into the food.

“I would have gladly stayed and accompanied you the remainder of the way, Commander. But I felt the need to inform my husband of your arrival personally. And," she said then answering his other question, "I had to see to it that my son was fed his dinner. My husband has a habit of overlooking such menial things."

Such as myself, finished Marcus with a half-grin. Still laying that bit on was she?

“Now," she said, taking on a brisk tone, "Are you here to declare pre-disposed terms, or is this a meeting to determine the context of our similarity of cause?"

It was obvious but the confidence and the authority in her voice that she was not completely new to this, or at the very least that she had picked on much from watching her husband speak. (Though Marcus would venture a guess that her speech was far more fluent and graceful in nature.) He did notice however the way she refused to meet his eyes and it told him more than a couple of things. One, either she feared him and didn’t have the nerve to watch him or two that she knew she was unpracticed in guarding her expression and that she feared him would see through her lies –versus fear of Marcus himself- and seek out the truth.

“A little bit of both actually,” replied Marcus wryly, his hands unconsciously feeling at the pummel of his blade as he spoke. “I will not say that I do not have an objective or plan in mind but I would better alter it and fit it to mutual benefit if I knew a bit more information about your relations with the Britons. Furthmore-”
At that moment there was a knock on the door, and Bethan turned almost relieved toward it, striding toward it and flinging it open fearlessly to reveal the broad and muscled form of his Master of Scouts.

“It is about time you arrived,” called Marcus from further inside the room. “May, I present the Saxon Queen with Ganfear Drakenstern, my Numeri Exploratum.”