Thorne and Miranda: A Tale of Roman Brittania

Fever

Miranda tended Thorne for days while he fought his fever. She listened to his rambling as she spread cool, wet cloths over his brow and gave him broth to drink, wondering as she did those things who he was and how he'd come to be a slave. Surely such a proud, handsome man was no slave, nor even common! As had been the habit of her father, she intended to find out, to tell him of her faith and to assist him however she could.

Slowly, his fever began to abate. Miranda laid the back of her hand against his brow, trying to tell if his fever was lessening, until the day when her hand could feel no difference. She pressed her lips against his brow as her mother had done when she was a child.

"Milady, you should not do that." His low voice made Miranda gasp and withdraw a little.

"How else am I to tell if your fever has left you?" she asked. "It is slight now- but there, nonetheless." He shrugged a little and winced. The action seemed to hurt his head. "Does your head pain you?" she asked, hoping to hear his fascinating accent again. He nodded once and closed his eyes again. "Would you like something to eat?" she asked, knowing he was still awake.

"Yes, please." His whispered answer told her exactly how much his head hurt. She wondered if the pain was from his fever, from a battlefield or from hitting the floor when she'd set his arm.

Miranda had some broth on hand but since he was awake, she decided he might like something to chew for once. "I will have Mara bring some stew," she told him quietly, trying not to aggravate his headache. "And when you have eaten, I will have the shades drawn. Will that help?"

"Thank you, Milady." His whispered words sent Miranda to find her maid. When Mara arrived with the stew, Thorne endeavored to open his eyes.

The clear blue of them captured Miranda's attention again. She sent Mara away and spooned up a bite of the food. Thorne accepted the offered spoonful of stew. "What do you believe, Thorne?" she asked while he chewed.

Thorne swallowed. "Why do you ask, Milady?" he countered cautiously.

"Because Dmitri calls you a barbarian and I want to know if it's true. Do you really offer human sacrifices to trees and rivers?"

Thorne laughed, then groaned and raised his hand to his head, the splint still firmly attached to his broken arm. He frowned and lowered the arm again. Miranda gave him more stew. When he'd swallowed, he asked, "Do you offer such sacrifice, Milady? My own mother swears that your people are the barbarians, giving offerings to so many gods that you barely have food to feed your people."

It was Miranda's turn to laugh while she spooned up more stew. "Most worship the gods, yes," she acknowledged while he ate the bite of food. "Uncle, for example, prays daily before whichever he feels best able to answer whatever need he has. I, however, worship only the Christ."

He smiled a little, but Miranda could tell it took effort. "As do I."

Miranda's breath caught in her throat. "You're a Believer?" she asked in shock, then lowered her voice. "And are you alone in this?" She offered more stew.

Thorne chewed and swallowed. "Nay, Milady. Many in my clan and others are the same. Some of our ancestors fled the Romans over a century ago in the Great Dispersion and went as far as they could, hoping that Rome would never find them. They married into the clans and taught them of the Christ."

"But Rome found you anyway," Miranda whispered, her throat tight with grief. "Oh Thorne! I am so sorry."

"Dinnae cry, Milady. I am here for a purpose. God has given me a job to do." He tried to smile reassuringly, but Miranda could see the pain etched in his face.