“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.”
Utter shock stopped him from tearing after her. An illusion, then. She couldn’t be real, yet she argued with Flora in the distance, her accent lilting and lyrical. He traced her steps in a daze, but when he came into view, Flora shook her head, and he waited, more confused than before.
How in fate’s wicked plan had such a dangerous enemy arrived on his doorstep…and then been invited inside the gate?
Marcus extinguished his anger as the house quieted again, the last of his energy expended. He wanted to pursue this tonight, but Flora and Lucia would argue, and his daughter would wake. They would get nowhere.
The business of women baffled him.
One certainty hit him between the eyes. She did not arrive here on her own. Neither Flora nor Lucia would be able to provide the answers he sought. First thing in the morning, he’d find his second in the training yard at the barracks and beat the sordid truth out of him.
Tonight would not be as restful as he’d hoped, sleeping with one eye open. Such a turn of events could only have been inspired by one man. Tertullian owed him answers.
* * *
“Go.” Flora shoved Ademeni toward the doorway. She resisted, bracing herself against the archway. Flora sniggered, and Ademeni hated her all the more. She hadn’t asked to come into this house, to be harassed and trained for service by a jealous harpy who once upon a time might have served her.
“Go,” Flora repeated. “He waits for you.”
Bile rose in the back of Ademeni’s throat. She’d lingered as long as she could, put off the inevitable duty Flora insisted she perform by sleeping at the foot of Marcus’s bed.
Gods, if she’d only known of his impending arrival, she would have been prepared to face her enemy. She needed the upper hand. And a weapon. One could not improvise murder and escape. Not when facing a man like Marcus Cordovis. Smart, strong…
Her pulse stuttered. He had seemed surprised to see her, yet he had to have ordered that she be taken to his house. He was in charge of his own soldiers, in charge of that horrible Tertullian. He was responsible for everything that befell her, Imaj and Lilah.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, she steadied her nerves and crept into the room. With a whisper, the curtain dropped behind her, dulling the sounds of night.
&n
bsp; The great general lay across a raised pallet, a blanket twisted around his body. His head rested against his forearm at an awkward angle.
Relief escaped her chest in a sigh. He seemed to be asleep, pulling in deep breaths. He’d bathed, the faint aroma of rosewater mingling with his masculine scent. So far as she could see, he wore nothing to sleep in, a fact she found easier to ignore than entertain.
A breeze fluttered the curtain, and moonlight dappled the general’s face, splayed across his rounded shoulders. She counted one scar, then another and another marring his skin.
Marcus groaned and shifted in the bed. Ademeni froze in her musings when she glimpsed the edge of a dagger held loosely between his fingers.
She stepped away, then toward him again, triumph darkening her common sense. Taking and holding a deep breath, she reached for the weapon.
She grasped the dagger and fell forward in the same moment, her limbs tangling with his.
Before she could blink, his hand clasped hers, crushing her fingers. He covered her mouth to stifle her scream and leveraged his weight to flip her onto the bed.
Gasping for breath, Ademeni found herself on her back, her arms pinned and mouth covered. She struggled to turn her hand and the knife toward him.
His hold slipped and she took advantage of the moment to force the blade toward him. He cursed as it slid across his shoulder. She cursed him back. “What did I tell you?”
With a grunt, he slammed her wrist against the wooden bed frame. The dagger flew out of her grasp and clattered against the stones.
She froze, all too conscious of the way her ragged breath mingled with his. Long ignored parts of her body sparked to life. One wrong move and that sheet would unwind itself down to the ground, and she’d be faced with a different sort of problem.
In the near perfect darkness, she could still make out the anger in his eyes.
He released her, taking a seat beside her, his hand clamped over the cut she’d inflicted. She gathered her wits and scrambled to her feet, inspecting her wounds, which were mere scrapes but included damaged pride.
When she darted toward the doorway, he rose, grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She barely heard his question.
“How did you come to be in my house?”
The query seemed ludicrous. Had he not initiated the chain of events that led her to this very spot? She lashed out with her free hand and he ducked to avoid her claws.
He caught her wrists in his hands as she continued to fight against him, unable to either injure him further or break free. Reduced to whimpers and desperate curses, Ademeni stopped her struggle.
One glance at the impassive face of Marcus Cordovis told her all she needed to know. Even the blur of tears could not ease his hard lines, his cold nature.
“Let me go, dominus,” she rasped, defeated only for the moment.
He released her at once, and she scampered into the night. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him washed in white moonlight. He looked like a marble statue, unmovable and unbreakable. Without the element of surprise, it would take everything she had to bring him to his knees.
Chapter Three
“Think of her as a rare gift.”
Marcus grit his teeth and went on the offensive with his practice weapon. He wanted to wipe the smug expression off Tertullian’s face. They’d been sparring for some time, but Marcus had much more aggression to expend.
“She was not yours to give,” he reminded his brother-in-law, shifting to the side to avoid a parry.
Tertullian jogged backward, sweat dripping from his chin, and shrugged. “Spoils of war, brother. She would have been sold sooner or later. I simply expedited matters. I doubt the emperor would object. She’d end up someone’s slave in due time—or dead.”
But not Marcus’s slave. Never his.
He had no need of additional slaves, and if last night was any indication, this one had worked his house into an uproar with very little effort. Taking captives as slaves, especially for a military familia, did not sit well with him.
“Come, brother. She’s the most exquisite daughter of the dead and despised king of Dacia and you are Trajan’s most courageous general.” Tertullian blocked a solid blow with his practice shield. “You and I both know Trajan has little use for women, even one so beautiful. He will not begrudge you, especially since you have no wife.”
Marcus frowned, his empty stomach growling. Tertullian’s flattering arguments made logical sense, but poor judgment lay behind them. The emperor’s proclivities didn’t matter, and bringing Julia into the fray felt dishonorable.
One thing was true enough. A beauty like Ademeni could tempt the ferryman of the River Styx. Every time he’d closed his eyes after their tussle last night, he’d felt her pressed beneath him, passion blinding him to good reason.
Marcus assumed an aggressive stance but waited for his partner to attack. “What am I supposed to do with her?”
Tertullian feinted then bared his teeth. “That’s a ridiculous question. Do with her whatever you like.”
“I slept with my weapon under my pillow.” Marcus charged, sending Tertullian reeling in a cloud of dust, and poised himself for the swift kill, a downward stroke to the throat.
“And how is that any different?” Tertullian asked, knocking the sword away. He stood and brushed himself off. “Consider your blessings. You had no pillow in Dacia.”
Marcus turned on his brother-in-law. Using his height to intimidate, he attempted to drive home his point with a finger to the chest.
“You put an angry, vengeful woman in my house. Without my knowledge or consent. She could have killed me, or Lucia, or—Juno forbid—Callia. She threatened me again last night.”
“Then discipline her.” Tertullian’s dead eyes didn’t blink. “Her sister has been no trouble to my house.”
Marcus spat into the dust, his appetite gone with this bit of news. Tertullian’s tone left no doubt as to how he had handled his new acquisition. A beating was the last thing he wanted to give Ademeni.
“You shouldn’t have done such a thing. For yourself, or in my name.” He turned away, more troubled now than when he’d risen this morning, his room empty except for the haunting aroma of sandalwood. He’d survived the night, yet the scent of this woman permeated his house and now, his thoughts.
“It’s entirely legal.” Tertullian dogged his escape from the heat of the practice yard. “She has the proper papers. If you don’t need her—or want her—I would gladly take her off your hands.”
Jaw clenched, Marcus whirled on his second, sending him backward a few steps. “And what does your wife think of your new Dacian slave?”
Finally, something paled Tertullian. His wife, Drusilla, would not take kindly to any rival in her house. Marcus regretted ever matching his sister with Tertullian, but years ago, the young solider had seemed more of a whelp than a wolf.
“I thought as much,” Marcus grumbled, happy to break away from the tension of the yard.
He poured a ladle of cold water over his head and worked through the situation. The transaction that had brought Ademeni to his house was legal and binding. For the time being, she’d become his responsibility.
Rather, his problem. Tertullian followed him down the slope toward the barracks, dogging his heels. “You have a weakness for Dacia because of Julia.”
Marcus wheeled around and stopped Tertullian with a hand to the chest but did not argue the accusation. “What really happened when you set out after Decebalus and his sons?”
The man retreated but smiled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
As promised, the unit had returned, the king’s severed head and hands in a war chest as a gift to Trajan. Looking now upon his second, Marcus did not believe for a moment that the warrior king had taken his own life. “I wanted him alive.”
Tertullian shrugged. “He would not have it any other way.”
In his mind’s eye, Marcus imagined the scene play
ing out. The detachment coming upon the fleeing Dacian royalty, and Tertullian deducing that the only way to get the body to obey was to cut off the head. Literally.
“He killed himself.” Tertullian stuck to his story. “I only took what rightfully belonged to Rome. All the glory was yours, and you were glad to receive it.”
Marcus turned, gathered his belongings and headed to the public bath. All he’d wanted was to be welcomed home by his family—and he hadn’t even seen his daughter but from a distance. They should be rejoicing, not arguing.
Instead, Tertullian had left another mess for him to clean up, putting a dangerous woman in his home, with his child. Marcus had ridden away from Dacia with his suspicions of how Decebalus had been handled, and now he felt certain his orders had been disobeyed. Without proof, however, he had only a bag of misgivings.
Tertullian’s missteps—if indeed they were mistakes—grew bolder across time. If he weren’t family, Marcus would have sent him to another outpost long ago.
His problem as well. He’d wanted to stay busy.
Stripping off his tunic, he folded it into a niche in the wall and strode to the edge of the pool, stretching as he went. Because it was still early, the large bath sat virtually empty.
All the better. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t feel at home with politics and gossip. Rome had been Julia’s domain. She had enjoyed the things the city offered while he preferred the more simple life of a soldier. Duty. Honor. Loyalty.
Marcus waded into the water and let the slow waves wash away the sweat and dust of the match with Tertullian. The longer he sat, the more he pondered fate, and only two choices presented themselves as far as Ademeni, daughter of Dacia, was concerned.
Sell her or keep her. He closed his eyes and splashed cool water on his face. Why did he care what happened to her? Beautiful women—free and slave—came and went with the wind. This woman was more trouble than she was worth, an easy mistake to remedy with a quick sale.
So why would he ever entertain the notion of keeping her?
Surrender to the Roman Page 3
