Surrender to the Roman (2 page)

Mindless, she howled and launched herself at him.

An arm of steel wrapped around her waist and secured her against the strong body of a tall man. She struggled against him, drawing blood with her fingernails. With little effort, he shook her senseless, until she hung limp in his arms.

“Why did you kill the boy?” Her captor’s booming voice demanded.

Imaj’s killer sneered. “He killed one of us—a life for a life.”

“You forget your place and your orders.” Ademeni was released into the arms of her remaining family. When she looked over her shoulder, she recognized him as the man giving orders in the cellar. “Now we have no leverage.”

She locked eyes with the soldier who had manhandled her. He wore more regal vestments than the others, so she took him for their leader. His emerald eyes marked his displeasure with the situation.

“We need no leverage, General,” came the response. “These are but women and children. The dogs have run and we stand idle.”

The general now stood between Ademeni and her brother’s killer. “Then take a party and find them. Bring them back alive. Do you understand?”

Several of the women wailed, but Ademeni wilted. Overwhelmed with despair, she let her family pull her into their embrace.

“Yes, sir.” The discharged men disappeared in a cloud of dust, her brother’s murderer barking orders as though he were in charge.

Wary caution settled across the red-caped leader’s taut features. As he roamed the narrow halls of their home, Ademeni studied him. He moved with purpose, experience and caution. His muscled body told of years of training and harsh days on the battlefield. A lifelong soldier. His expression said he had seen too much death, and when he regarded her again, her pulse quickened.

Sickened by her fascination with the enemy, she turned her face. She divined that he would not kill them—they were either too valuable or he would spare those he considered weak.

Slavery, then, their destiny.

Focusing on Imaj’s prone body, she prayed to her gods for the strength to exact revenge on these men for what they’d done to her brother, her family and her land.

* * *

Marcus knelt on the riverbank and splashed cold water on his face, shaken by what they’d discovered inside the city walls. A crisp spring day marred by needless death. Women and children either dead or hidden like livestock while the king and his men had run like curs.

What kind of man sacrificed his helpless ones?

Guilt pierced his heart. What kind of man, indeed.

A small collection of women and children, plus one young son with a beautiful, vehement defender. By far, the most striking woman he’d seen in far too long, obviously attached to the royal family.

“Sir!”

Rising, Marcus turned to the messenger, and steered him from the river at a slow pace. “What news?”

“Tertullian sends word. They’ve found King Decebalus.”

His pulse quickened. “What of him?”

“Dead, by his own hand.”

Marcus spat in disgust, not quite believing the report. “And the rest of the party?”

The page nodded. “All reported captured.”

Ice gripped his heart. “Alive?”

“Yes, sir.” The messenger shared one last nugget. “Tertullian will return with the head and hands of Decebalus to present to Trajan.”

Marcus slowed at this unsettling news. Had the king truly taken his own life, or had Tertullian killed him against orders in hopes of advancing himself? If the king had killed himself, the others should have done so as well. To hide the royal women and children, then surrender made no strategic sense. Either way, the war was finished. Marcus would deal with his second when they returned to Rome. He sent the page away and returned to camp, where orders from Trajan awaited his arrival.

The message, as always, fell short and to the point.
Well done, Rome rejoices in your victory, here are your new orders. Send the family of Decebalus to Rome ahead of the army with a detachment to ensure their safe arrival.

The emperor would waste no time securing his victory by parading the conquered family through the streets of Rome as tradition dictated. Marcus imagined the rebellious beauty so displayed and shook his head.

He had no desire to see such things. His victories came on battlegrounds, taken through a clash of strength and wills, not humiliation. That was not war, but politics.

He crumpled the order in his fist and paced, distracted by the news of the Dacian king’s death. Worthless. And now there would be family to send under armed guard. How would he secure safe passage for any of the prisoners if he doubted Tertullian’s motives?

Marcus would be ordered to stay and oversee the set up of the provincial government. He had no other option than to send Tertullian ahead to Rome. Trajan would not understand Marcus’s concerns with regard to his brother-in-law, not without proof.

And in truth, depravity in the ranks was not wholly frowned upon.

A shriek of outrage froze his thoughts. To the right, in a clearing, a group of Dacian women huddled together. Surrounded by guards, they waited with blank, passive faces, as they had since seeing for themselves the mass suicide of the villagers.

Except for one woman, who tried to break through the circle of soldiers, only to be rebuffed time and again.

He did not need to look twice. The raven-haired beauty who had rabidly defended the brave little prince. Gown streaked with dirt and blood, she stood apart from the others to be sure. She fought with raw passion rare to see in a woman.

She paused in her efforts as he approached and knew his language well enough to turn her sharp tongue on him. “What will you do with his body, you Roman dog?”

Glancing to his right, Marcus saw the boy’s body on a cart, his corpse taken in case the king had needed an additional reason to lay down his weapons.

Marcus had only one answer to give, but he kept his voice low. “His body will be burned.”

She shook, her face twisted in rage, while the wind whipped her long, dark hair into a cyclone. Her eyes pierced his cautious stare and branded his soul. He fought the physical response her nearness rendered.

“That is not our way—you would dishonor him in his death,” she insisted.

Everything about this woman seemed dangerous, especially the tears she refused to check. She owned her birthright, and hatred radiated from her like warmth from the sun. These things, when coupled with her pained, exquisite features, made her doubly threatening.

Nothing he could say would console her, so he asked, “What is your name?”

She straightened her spine. “Ademeni, daughter of King Decebalus.”

Her name tripped off her tongue like music, her broken language not lyrical enough to disguise her position. Daughter of the king.

He should have known.

Pushing past the brief shot of pleasure he’d received at the melodic sound of her name, he returned to his duty.

“Ademeni, daughter of Dacia, I am Marcus Decimas Cordovis, commander of Trajan’s Flavia Felix Legion.” He delivered news that drained the blood from her face and left him shaken for the first time in his storied military career. “You are now a slave of Rome, and to Rome you will go in the morning, a gift of Trajan to the city.”

She darted forward, daring the guards to force her back yet again. Marcus held his men at bay with a subtle nod while inhaling a tantalizing whiff of sandalwood. Her tight smile sent a chill down his spine.

With white-knuckled fingers, she pulled on the collar of her dress, rending the fabric and exposing her neck and the generous swell of her breasts. His mouth went dry. If she’d attacked him, he would have understood. Instead, she narrowed her gaze and seemed to take his measure.

“You should pierce my heart now, Marcus Cordovis, General of Rome.” Her dark eyes flashed. “Because if I live, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

“Who is she?”

A tall, slender woman called Flora barred the entrance to Ademeni’s destination. Exhausted by the cruel forced march to and through Rome, she stifled a groan at the flint in the woman’s voice.

Reeling from the smelly, overcrowded markets and the painful, perhaps final, separation from her family, Ademeni would give anything for a sip of cold water. The majority of her family had been quartered together, but she and Lilah had been removed from the others when they reached the city and then sent on separate routes.

She fought to remain upright and waited for these two idiots to make the exchange that would deliver her into the home of her enemy.

She’d underestimated how cruel this general could be. She’d threatened him and he’d taken her for his slave. A stroke of either madness or luck, she would not know which until he returned.

Marcus Cordovis had not made the trip with them, both a blessing and a curse. He had turned her family over to the soldier who had killed her brother, a soulless man named Tertullian. He’d deprived them of food, water and rest, and when they’d finally reached the market, he’d taken Lilah for himself and sent Ademeni to this wretched house.

“Where is the general?” Flora demanded, hands on her hips. She wore a simple long tunic, bunched at the shoulders and corded at the waist. Gilded bangles adorned her wrists, and her graying hair hung in a long plait down her back.

From her regal bearing, Ademeni assumed her to be the lady of the house. The general’s mother, perhaps.

“He’s to return with Trajan.”

Ademeni shuddered despite the heat. She stared at the back of the common foot soldier who’d taken her to the home of her new master, wishing she had the physical strength to steal his weapon and drive the blade home. In lieu of Trajan, Marcus Cordovis or Tertullian, his death would do.

“Return when?”

“On the next full moon, perhaps before,” Flora was told. “Tertullian directed me to bring this slave to the household of General Cordovis.”

At the word
slave,
Flora made a face, as if she smelled something rotten. True enough. Ademeni wilted under the stench of travel and the heat of a sweltering day. She stood as tall as her throbbing ankle would allow. This woman should be giving her food, water, a soft bed, not turning up her nose.

Ademeni wanted to be here even less than she was wanted. She called upon her last drop of strength to stand still, chin raised, rather than dropping to her knees in agony. She resolved to show no weakness.

“I see.” Flora stepped around the soldier to inspect the new addition. She kept a wide berth. “She is from Dacia?”

“Yes,” came the answer. “You should watch her carefully. She can be…rebellious.”

Ademeni snorted, then covered her misstep with a cough. They had no idea how rebellious she planned to be.

Flora’s curt nod dismissed the solider. She looked down her nose at her new charge, as if daring her to break form. “I suppose you should come inside.”

Ademeni stole another look at the fortress of a house. Whitewashed walls climbed to three times her stature, the front door flanked by two rounded columns the likes of which she’d seen all across this rancid city. The impressive height of the door made the dwelling seem even larger. Once inside, she might never get out.

That would be up to the gods.

“What is your name, girl?”

“Ademeni.”

“Come inside.” Flora led the way through the heavy double doors, pausing to shut them and swing the bar lock into place. “You offend all the senses.”

Ademeni stopped inside the doors. Her aching feet cooled on a stone floor, and her eyes had trouble adjusting to the riot of color in the frescoes that adorned either side of the entry.

“Come,” Flora ordered, already across the room.

Ademeni did not hurry, and instead brushed her fingertips over a brilliant mosaic that stretched down the hallway. She passed too close to see what whole image the tiny tiles created.

They walked along the left side of an open courtyard. The aroma of recently prepared food permeated the house. Sunlight flooded through an open roof, and a pool of sparkling water lay directly below.

Surely she wouldn’t be expected to bathe there, in the open air, for anyone to see. She’d heard stories that Romans enjoyed that kind of sport.

“This is your bedchamber.” Flora motioned her new charge into a tiny room with space for a mattress carved into the far wall. Ademeni hesitated, remembering the cramped cellar, and refused to step into the room.

“Stay here,” Flora commanded, then hurried away.

So a Roman general’s house looked like this? He must be well paid to have such a large home and beautiful things. Dacian warriors did not fare so well.

Ademeni turned to take in all she could see. A series of quarters lined the wall on the opposite side of the courtyard, the rooms larger, deeper. Toward the back of the house, a kitchen bustled with activity. The scent of bread and roasting meat turned her empty stomach inside out. In the distance, she thought she heard the laughter of a child.

Other slaves? The general’s family? With a child came a mother, a wife. New and ripe targets for her rage.

Ademeni took a deep breath, and Flora returned with folded clothing and a loaf of hard bread in her hands. She motioned to a bench at the edge of the atrium and handed Ademeni the items.

“Do you understand my tongue?”

Tearing into the bread with her teeth, Ademeni grunted her reply. After the first invasion, Dacians had been forced to conduct business in Latin. While she hadn’t spoken the language often, she’d grown accustomed to hearing it.

“First, you are never to enter the room to the right of the front door—you are not permitted to view the family altar. Second, the bath is that last room, behind the kitchen. Go now, clean yourself, and wash your hair. Make yourself presentable.”

Ademeni’s dismissive nod did not ease the lines on Flora’s brow. The older woman rose and issued a warning. “Do not think that you can do as you please because the master is away.”

At those words, an image of the master invaded Ademeni’s thoughts, her imagination making Marcus Cordovis taller, broader, more callous. He’d stood before her, telling her she would be taken to Rome, planning all along to take her for himself. When, then, did he intend to return and claim her as his property?

She’d underestimated his style of cruelty, had thought she’d witnessed a moment of compassion, but would not make such a mistake again. She would use the time to prepare.

A sharp slap on the wrist jarred her to the present. Flora scowled. “Do you hear me?”

Because this woman might have the right to kill her, she answered, “As you wish.”

Flora’s jaw tightened, her face cold. “I don’t know why the master brought you here, but since he has, I will train you. Do you understand?”

Misery leaked into Ademeni’s spirit. No one in Rome had a beating heart. They saw only someone to cook, clean and lie down with the dogs.

Flora returned to her lecture. “Until he returns, you will sleep in your chamber, next to mine, in the slave quarters. You will have food, clothing and shelter. If you disobey, you will be punished.”

Ademeni blinked. Flora was a slave? Before Ademeni found the words to ask, instructions continued.

“When
dominus
returns, you will care for him. You will sleep at the foot of his bed in case he needs you in the night.” The insinuation added an uncomfortable layer to the arrangements. Considering where such proximity might lead, Ademeni’s body warmed of its own volition while Flora droned on. “This household is small, only ten slaves—now eleven—so you will learn everything. We will start your education when you are clean.”

* * *

Marcus thundered into Rome at nightfall, two pages doing their best to keep up astride exhausted horses. Sparse pedestrian traffic darted out of his way as he maneuvered toward the barracks, advance orders from Trajan tucked into his bag.

He ground his teeth, fighting the weariness that came from a long, hard ride. Things had gone smoothly, and Trajan had released him after only ten days to return to Rome in order to make plans for the army’s triumphant entry.

He pulled his horse to a stop outside the camp and dismounted in one fluid movement. The guards snapped to attention at his approach and saluted in unison. “General.”

“Tertullian?” he asked, putting them at ease with a wave of his hand. “Is he still here?”

“Left for home, sir.”

Marcus nodded. He’d feared they wouldn’t beat the sunset. Everyone he needed to see had already gone for the day. No sane man, even a military man, wandered the streets after dark. “Take my gear. And get me a fresh horse.”

Unexpected waves of memories washed over him as he waited to ride the short distance to his home on the south side of the Capitoline Hill. He had grown up not far from Rome, had received his schooling near the barracks and had met his wife just inside the city.

Everything seemed familiar, yet changed, as if he’d dreamt his previous life in Rome. Had the layer of grime and decay always been there, or had he not noticed?

“Sir.” The guard handed him reins to a fresh mount, and Marcus wasted no time proceeding to the house, his arrival unexpected at the very least. His gut churned, worried over how he would be received. He feared he would find the house too large now that Julia’s laughter had been stripped away.

He pulled back on the reins, his mouth dry.

Would his daughter even remember him?

A smile broke through as he dismounted. He pushed away the concerns. She should be asleep by now. In the morning, he would find answers to all his questions.

The front door groaned as it eased open, and a familiar voice called from inside, “Master Cordovis.”

He grinned. “Flora. I’d recognize your voice a million
mille
away.”

He tethered the horse then slipped through the doorway, pausing to bolt the lock. The eerie sensation of being a stranger in his own home slid across his skin as he paused in the torch-lit entryway.

The last time he’d stood on this ground Julia had refused to bid him farewell, opting for tears rather than smiles and well-wishes. As if she hadn’t realized she’d married a soldier.

Flora motioned him forward. “Come, we’ve been expecting you. Not this soon, but you’re here all the same.”

Darkness receded the further into the house he ventured, the warmth of a fire in the kitchen chasing away the evening draft. Voices drifted toward him, and he slowed his step, a stranger in his own home.

Flora furrowed her brow. “Sir?”

He stepped forward and glimpsed a young girl, no more than five, sitting near the hearth. Her sweet smile tore at the defenses of his heart. Callia looked too much like her mother.

“She won’t know me,” he muttered, running a hand over his face, now covered with a beard. “I’ll frighten her.”

“Allow me to take care of it.” Flora held up a hand for him to wait. He kept to the shadows while she went into the kitchen and gave instructions to put Callia to bed. When the way had been cleared, she motioned Marcus into the room. He received a warm welcome from his wife’s mother, Lucia Antonina.

“My son returns,” she said with a surprised smile, rising from her seat to embrace him. “And sooner than expected.”

“It’s good to be home.” Relief relaxed his mind, and he sank onto one of the benches near the table. “You look well, Lucia. Wisdom becomes you.”

“You mean age.” She laughed and squeezed his hand. “I should hope so, since I have little choice in the matter.”

Flora set a platter of fruit and cheese on the table. “What news do you bring?”

“News?” he asked. “You already know of the victory in Dacia. Trajan sent me ahead to prepare Rome for his return with the remainder of the army in one month’s time.”

“Since you speak of Dacia…” Flora began, but Lucia cleared her throat. Marcus didn’t miss the pointed glares one shot the other.

“You must be exhausted,” Lucia said. “The house is yours, so bathe, eat and sleep. Tomorrow has its own troubles.”

Marcus suspected he didn’t know half the “troubles” he might find in the morning. But he could wait. Between the good food and the warm fire, he wouldn’t be awake for long.

After he ate, he bid the women goodnight and sighed, alone in a house his soldier’s salary could never have afforded. This place had become a tangible reminder of Julia. He fought a stab of guilt over their marriage. Over her death. Over all of it.

Marcus stood and paced before the fire as he ate. He’d underestimated how easily he could lose himself in an undertow of memories. He needed to stay busy. Thank the gods he had Tertullian to keep in line. On the morrow, they would talk about those last days in Dacia and about how his trip to bring what remained of the royal family to Rome had unfolded.

For there had been rumors of mistreatment. Some was expected, but his explicit orders had been to return the captives—especially the royal family—in good stead.

For tonight, a bath, then to sleep in a real bed. His bones ached for the comfort of a mattress. Giving in to his weariness, he turned toward his bedchamber, the thought of first taking a long, warm soak curving his lips.

A feminine gasp stopped him cold, and he raised his eyes while reaching for the knife at his belt. Across the room, washed in the orange glow of a dying fire, stood a dark-haired woman dressed in yellow, her head covered with a scarf.

He blinked. A Dacian woman?

His heart galloped, then ice flowed through his veins. Not just any Dacian woman. The fiery daughter of King Decebalus. He wrapped his fingers around the grip of his dagger. “What in Hades are you doing here?”

Wide eyes betrayed her fear as they faced one another. Despite his surprise, his blood heated in a primal response to her very presence. Her loose-fitting dress belied the shapely body beneath, the first glimpse of which he’d found hard to forget.

Stealthy as a cat, she retreated into the dark embrace of the quiet house, but her parting words flew at him like arrows.

“You should have killed me in Dacia.”