Free To Burn by Claudia Dain

have been worse," she finished with a catch in her voice.
    "It could have been worse? You spread yourself for a Saxon, practically in public, and it could have been worse? What of your commitment to God? What of the fact that they came here to murder and steal and burn? Perhaps it could have been worse for you," Melania said with stiff dignity, "but it could hardly have been worse for me."
    "Oh, yes, it could be worse for you," Dorcas answered, her own ire rising. "You are a slave now, as much as you deny that truth. Why do you think that you have been spared? Do you not know that they take their pleasure where they find it, even to the burning of this place? Didn't you wonder that they didn't touch you?"
    "Touch me?" Melania asked in numbing horror. It had never occurred to her. Those... animals, touching her? She could as easily imagine Optio, her father's mount, suddenly reciting Greek poetry.
    "Yes. It is because of him, of Wulfred. He is in charge of his men and he is in charge of you. They will not touch you because of him. They dare not."
    "He is not in charge of me!"
    Dorcas responded with a cynical raising of her brows and said nothing.
    There was no need, Melania realized. He controlled her home, her servants, her labor. Her life. But it was only for a season of her life—a season as unnatural and miserable as this hot, dry summer. Like all seasons, it would pass. It had to pass. There could not be year upon year of this domination, this contest of minds and wills that fired them both; this could not continue past the summer season. She did not think she could endure more than a season of him in her life. He hounded her through the day, and she was certain that he watched her at night while she slept. He had taken her home and made it into his camp. He had taken every familiar and cherished thing in her life and put his Saxon mark upon it; she wondered sometimes if he had not somehow put his mark upon her.
    "I... did not understand," Melania said, her thoughts whirling. "I didn't know." Looking into the dark eyes of Dorcas, Melania came as close as she could to an apology. Melania was not accustomed to being in the wrong; she had little skill in the art of apology and even less desire to learn. "Do what you must to survive, Dorcas. I will find no fault in it. And I will pray that God will also find you guiltless. It is the Saxons who are guilty."
    Before Dorcas could voice a reply, Melania was gone, hunting for the Saxon the way fire hunts for air. She did not care to listen to her tumbled thoughts; she preferred to act.
    Fortunately he was so very easy to find; the smell alone would have led her. He was where she had known he would be, lounging with his gang of murderers in her triclinium, that seducer of the powerless with him. Oaf. He would answer to this charge of debauchery and licentiousness; he would have a chance to defend himself. She would be civilized.
    "I have just been informed that your men have been taking... liberties with the women of my home, women to whom I have a responsibility. It has also been pointed out to me that I have been spared these atrocities because of you and the control you have foolishly convinced yourself you have over my life." Her anger growing with every breath she took, like a living flame that was fed by the charged air between them, Melania said, "Is it true, if you can find it in your deceitful Saxon heart to acknowledge truth, that it is because of you and your interference that I alone have remained unmolested?"
    Her charge was clearly stated. He was being given the chance to defend himself publicly. She astounded herself with her superior sense of justice, but it should not be surprising: she was Roman.
    Wulfred had not moved during her fiery speech, but remained kneeling at the table, negligently sipping his beer. He had not looked at her, firing her anger at his insolence even higher, and when he finally spoke, it was to his men. But he said it in Latin.
    "She sounds