Yearnings: A Paranormal Romance Box Set (109 page)

Torvus knew that the Spanish troops were not experienced, but they were fresh, and their homes lay not a few hectares away—a village that would be burned to nothing if they did not win this battle. No one fought more desperately than those whose families’ fates rested in his hands. But even as the warrior watched, the front line stumbled back another step, losing precious inches. If they fell back another few yards, the Romans would reach the plateau, and the Spanish would lose their slim advantage.

If only Torvus had been graced with more time. These men were unseasoned and had not fought in dozens of wars, as the Northerner had. How could they know that a battle looking as lost as this one could turn upon the tip of a sword? Once, Torvus had seen a single stable boy’s shout of encouragement turn the tide of battle outside Vichy. The warrior’s troops had rallied and swarmed the legionnaires within minutes. But these peasants were ignorant. They worried for the rough pitchforks they held in their hands. They feared the bronze-tipped spears that the Romans brandished. These simple folk did not understand what spelled victory. It mattered far more what was inside one’s heart than the weapon one gripped in the hand.

Perhaps the regent was correct. Thunder rumbled in the distance, heralding the gods’ impatience. If they waited much longer the center of the Spanish line would break, and all would be lost. Torvus nodded to the boy and spurred the stallion forward. This battle would be decided before Apollo reached his zenith.

Torvus rode in front of the assembled troops and boldly stared into each man’s eyes. If they were to die today, it would be as free men. Each could hear the strangled cries from the battlefield. Each knew death lay but a few yards away. Yet each answered the warrior’s gaze with pride and commitment.

All except Torvus’ lieutenant, Karret. This boy thought that
he
should be riding upon the stallion, leading his countrymen into battle. The warrior frowned at the young man’s arrogance. The boy had yet to truly fight in any campaign. Karret was the son of the smithy who forged the easily broken swords they carried. Without that stature, the boy never would have held a rank such as lieutenant.

Not rising to Karret’s bait, Torvus rode past the youth and turned back to the troops. There was no long inspirational speech, or even a wailing cry. They dare not give away their position. It was crucial that the attack be a surprise. Torvus’ hand rose, feeling the rough texture of the leather gauntlet for a single heartbeat, then the fist was clasped.

The Northerner did not look back as the stallion surged onto the battlefield proper. The warrior knew that the troops charged close behind.

Pure rage coursed through Torvus’ blood, blunting the bone-jarring impact when the warrior’s stallion hit the enemy’s rear. The Romans had been preoccupied by the clash of armor at the front line and were mowed down in the wake of Torvus’ charge. The stallion spun and kicked as the warrior created confusion to allow the Spanish troops to descend the slope.

Now that the Romans were engaged on two sides, the favor momentarily turned to the Spanish. Caesar’s legion had no choice but to shuffle to meet this new force, which broke the forward thrust up the hill. This was the Spaniards’ keening blow. They must take advantage of this breach before the elite Romans regrouped. With a resounding shout, Torvus spurred the stallion forward, into the thick of the Romans.

Some stood their ground, but many scattered under the horse’s flailing hooves. The peasants needed to see that these Romans were not gods—not even minor deities. Underneath all of that ornate armor and bright feathers, the legionnaires were nothing more than men. And men could die.

Despite the warrior’s best efforts, these Romans were well seasoned and reorganized readily. And as the warrior had feared, the dark horsemen were summoned to the rear. While battling three soldiers at once, Torvus begged the gods a boon. Without something to quicken these green Spanish troops, they would lose their momentum.

In answer, an arrow flew through the sky and struck Torvus in the left arm. Biting back a cry, the warrior’s arm went limp, dropping the broadsword onto the blood-soaked ground. It was as if the sun tired of its journey across the sky. Time crawled as if it were a newborn. It seemed that all eyes were upon the warrior. Not just those of the reinforcement troops stared at the injury, but the battle-weary Spaniards from the front line sought the warrior’s pained expression. The entire battlefield held its breath.

This was the gods’ boon. Torvus had fought many a war, and knew this to be one of those most precious moments when a single person could turn the tide of battle.

Without care to the damage done, Torvus took the shaft of the arrow and in full view of both Spaniard and Roman, snapped it off at the skin. The motion sent daggers of pain throughout the injured arm as the metal scraped bone, but Torvus held the stallion’s seat. Despite the agonizing pain, the warrior drew a knife from a hidden pocket in the saddle and threw it with all the force that could be mustered.

As if the Romans’ own goddess, Diana, guided the blade, it struck the archer in the throat, right beneath his protective strap. The man pitched forward. A cry went up along the front line, and the Romans had to fall back a step. But it was a most important step. It taught these flushed peasants that even Rome could be forced into retreat.

Drawing a short sword from its scabbard, Torvus fought with even more verve. This battle could be won. The thought numbed the pain as no healer could. The thrusts and parries blurred into one as the fighting dragged on, but these Romans were hardy, and this legion of Caesar’s was particularly stalwart. Torvus might have admired their constitution if they had not been birthed by the nation that burned towns and clubbed babes.

Just at the edge of the warrior’s vision, Torvus saw one of the Spaniards go down. Glancing back, Torvus found the sneering lieutenant scrambling away from a well-armed Roman. The true battle lay ahead, yet the warrior could not turn a cold shoulder to a comrade, no matter how much disliked.

In two strides, the stallion brought Torvus alongside the legionnaire. With a single swipe, the Roman’s head was cleaved from his body. Even saved, the lieutenant gave no sign of thanks or a word of warning.

The first that Torvus knew of the rear attack was when the lance pierced the warrior’s thick leather armor and split it open. The Roman’s blade sliced through the commander’s cloth and skin as if they were butter.

Torvus could not keep the ample fullness of her breast from losing its binding. Blood poured from the wound, coursing down the very feminine cleavage. Not caring of the exposure, the warrior swept the blade back and caught the assailant in the chin, splitting open his skin down to the bone.

All was not lost. Torvus was turned away from the force of battle. This dark secret, well hidden beneath layers of clothes, need never see the light of day. It could have been kept, except for the lieutenant whose eyes had dilated to the point of complete blackness.

Karret pointed to the exposed nipple. “You are a woman.”

Torvus did not respond. There was no time for explanations or excuses. Whether they called her Torvus or by her given name, Syra, she was needed in battle.

“
Help me bind the wound,” Syra ordered. The warrior could feel the tide turning behind them. The troops needed her seated and rallying forward, crushing the Romans between their forces.

Instead of helping, the spoiled son of the blacksmith took a step back.

“
Impostor!” the boy hissed.

Could this child not understand that despite her full breasts, in her heart she was not a woman, but a warrior? Had she not fought valiantly? Had she not won battle after battle for this man’s country? What did it matter her sex? But the man’s face was contorted with rage.

It mattered greatly to him.

Syra tried a different tack. “I will leave your town once the battle—”

“
Impostor!” Karret stated, loud enough for the closest troops to hear.

Syra kicked her horse forward and grabbed the lieutenant’s arm. “We can win this. Do not allow—”

Her entreaty was no use. The man shouted at the top of his pampered lungs, “Impostor!”

Weakened from her injuries, Syra could not repel the lieutenant when he forced her to turn toward the troops. At first, her soldiers did not understand. The blood distracted them from her deception. Seemingly unaware of the damage he was doing to his battle or his home, the lieutenant ripped the warrior’s armor completely off. Now, naked above the waist, Syra’s femininity could not be hidden. The looks of shock and fear replaced the troops’ confidence.

With her identity revealed, the Spaniards milled about, and the Romans were quick to push their advance. Whether it was the blood loss, the pain, or the feeling of betrayal, Syra’s vision blurred. A blow from behind saved the warrior from seeing her battle lost.

* * * * *

Those ills your ancestors have done,

Romans! Are now become your own:

And they will cost you dear,

Unless you soon repair

The falling temples, which the gods provoke,

And statues, sullied yet with sacrilegious smoke.

Propitious Heaven, that raised your fathers high

For humble, grateful piety,

As it rewarded their respect

Hath sharply punished your neglect.

Horace

* * * * *

CHAPTER 1

Brutus’ lips turned down as the women once again tugged at his silk sash. With Caesar returning this eve from his resounding victory in Spain, the women of his household were having near fits ensuring that their appearance was regal beyond question. Given Brutus’ outward support of Pompey, everyone knew that it was only through Caesar’s generosity that they lived, let alone attend this festival as guests of honor.

“
Brutus! Do not slouch!” Olivia, his ever-critical mother, scolded.

Feeling as if he were but a babe again, Brutus straightened, but the whole while his jaw tensed. Did these women know nothing? Caesar cared not for fashion. Julius was a shrewd tactician. He knew that the only way to reunify the Republic was to show what a benevolent leader he had become in his travels. Caesar’s decision was calculated to calm the public. It did not rest upon vanity, such as whose purple sash most matched the color of his chariot. Brutus knew this, as did his manservant, Horat, but they had been unable to dissuade either Olivia or Lylith, his wife.

“
This will not do! We must have the seamstress come back at once!” Lylith demanded, as her pale cheeks blotched with worry.

To imagine living through another moment with the shrill old seamstress weighed far too heavily on Brutus. Stepping off the small dais, he turned to his wife. “It will have to do.”

Allowing the women to sputter behind him, Brutus strode toward the front of the mansion and grabbed his rough, wool cloak. Both women shrieked and tried to catch up, but the senator was in the litter before they could snatch his favored garment from his shoulders. It smelled of papyrus from his office at the Temple of Saturn. A place he wished very much to be, but not tonight.

Horat helped the women into the litter, then backed away. However, Brutus motioned his servant into the litter. The senator was not about to be trapped for the long ride across Rome with none but these two. The servant looked surprised, yet entered as asked.

Once underway, Olivia moved the curtain aside and took in a sharp breath. “Oh, my…”

Brutus was used to his mother’s many moods, but impressed was usually not one of them. Despite his disdain for this entire affair, he was drawn forward. One glance out the drawn curtain, and Brutus could understand his mother’s exclamation.

Rome was aglow.

The entire city was illuminated by thousands of torches. It was as Homer had once written of the mighty Mount Olympus. Apollo himself must have supplied the torches, for they burned true. Even the fire within the Temple of Vesta sparkled brighter than the closest star.

“
Have them stop, Brutus. We must tie back the curtains,” Olivia demanded.

“
No! We are already late!” Lylith pointed to the packed streets leading to the Forum. “We will never find a place.”

Olivia patted her daughter-in-law on the knee. “Dear child. Your husband is a senator—”

“
But look at them all!”

Brutus hated to admit it, but his wife was right. The area encircling the Forum was already overcrowded with white-robed senators. In an effort to increase his influence, Caesar had enlarged the number of chairs from six hundred to nine hundred. This expanded legislative body could not even be fit into the ancient Curia. Julius was forced to build another just to accommodate the swelling ranks.

“
And they are…” Lylith sputtered. “They are nothing but rabble! They will steal our seats right out from under us!”

Once again, his nervous wife was correct. Most of the newly established senators were from less-than-noble families with no real sense of how to govern or even how to be governed. Some even wore brown sandals rather than the red sandals that each and every senator had worn since ancient times. Rome was changing, and not necessarily for the better.