Surrender to the Roman

by M. K. Chester

  The hit-and-miss rhythm of their bodies heightened the fervor between them. Ademeni’s hair fell against his chest and he slid his hand behind her head, his gaze boring into hers as the frenzied dance slowed to a more serious beat.

  He seemed to want her permission to take her. She saw a flash of yearning in his eyes. Triumph ran through her veins even though he hadn’t uttered a single word in surrender.

  What more permission could she give? Closing her eyes, she felt him rise beneath her, and she slid her body over his in a deliberate, controlled arch.

  Ademeni cried out, not in pain, but in the fullness of the act. The tables had turned, and now she had taken him captive. She tasted a new kind of freedom in the back of her throat, sweeter than when she’d run along the mountain paths of home.

  Marcus pushed the hair back from her face and pulled her into a searing kiss. Her body fell easily into the steady pace he set, raising her hips in time to his thrusts.

  Her arms became weak as her blood soared. Marcus raised his knees so that she cradled against him, his arms securing her against his chest.

  The full friction drove her to another precipice. She lost rational thought. Moans of pleasure escaped her, then him in turn, the volume increasing with each movement.

  Ademeni’s body locked. She teetered on the edge of great ecstasy, and she held herself still as long as she could bear. Throwing her head back, she fell over the barrier and tumbled downward on waves of euphoria.

  Moments later, Marcus rose beneath her a final time, his face a mask of pleasure and pain. Warmth spread from her center across her flesh, and she fell against his chest, spent.

  All too soon, the altered reality faded, and life rushed in around them again. Desperate to hang on to the moments of bliss, Ademeni clung to Marcus as if she might never see him again.

  He smoothed her hair from her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. His heartbeat galloped under her ear. When he moved to separate himself from her, tears scalded her eyes.

  A blanket surrounded her and warmed her body. Her pulse stuttered in realization. What came next? What if he didn’t stay—or worse, sent her away? What if, after this moment, he decided to cast her aside?

  She needn’t have worried. He settled beside her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other stroking her cheek. She closed her eyes and made peace with what they’d done.

  There would be time enough in the morning to see if this one night of passion might change her fortune in the Roman Empire—at least in the eyes of this one man. At the outset, she’d had no idea how rewarding the attempt would be, to say nothing of the coupling.

  When she next woke, her destiny would be changed for the better. He would not disappoint her. Inhaling the scent of their togetherness, she edged toward sleep, secure that in the light of day, Marcus Cordovis would look at her differently. She’d given him little choice.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ademeni blinked against the sting of the midmorning sun. Shielding her eyes, she winced as her body sprang to life, its memory better than hers.

  She sat up with a start.

  Marcus had gone. Likely at first light.

  She cursed her bad luck as she twisted in the bed. She slept too late. Today, of all days, she should have heard the household rise.

  A smile played on her lips. Memories prickled her skin, echoes of his touch, the scent of their passion embedded in the linens she now wrapped around her body.

  Then she remembered. Her smile faded. Trajan would return today, a victorious conqueror with his favored and loyal general, Marcus Cordovis, by his side.

  She sat up and swept her hair back from her face with shaky hands. In the course of one night, everything had changed.

  Rather, everything should have changed. Apprehension charged through her exhausted body as she focused on the doorway. Beyond the swaying curtain, household activity buzzed. They would all go to the Aventine and watch their emperor return to Rome, waving palm leaves and cheering.

  The least of her worries. First, she needed to get from Marcus’s bedchamber to her own, where she could dress herself and…what? She could no longer pretend that nothing had happened between herself and the general.

  Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. As if the entire house didn’t already know, weren’t already discussing over morning bread the sounds that had emanated from the room last night.

  The news would spread like an oil fire. How long before it reached the ears of that leach, Tertullian? He would learn how the great general plucked her from the Temple of Venus with one hand and pleasured her with the other. Her face heated, and she pressed her cold palms against her cheeks. Perhaps they’d already laughed about how Marcus had finally conquered her.

  She wondered about the timing now, the luster of their coupling wearing thin in the light of day. Still, she had made her choice. Setting her jaw, she battled her dread and rose from the bed. Showing herself would be no easier once the sun had reached its height.

  Poking her head past the archway, Ademeni looked right and left. Callia’s laughter echoed down the hall from the kitchen, something sweet to soothe her concerns.

  She managed to retreat to her own chamber without notice, where she hastily pulled on a fresh tunic and overlay. Once the belt sat tight against her waist, she took a deep breath and prepared herself for Flora’s caustic tongue.

  She stepped into the open, a moving target.

  Lucia turned toward her, her round cheeks rouged, eyes sparkling. “Come, have something to eat.”

  Ademeni regarded the entreaty with caution, catching a glimpse of Flora’s pinched expression. Stepping into the kitchen, she tore a piece of bread to have something to do with her hands.

  Lucia swayed closer and lowered her voice. “Will you go with us today?”

  The bread turned to dust on her tongue. Go with them? To the procession? “Surely not.”

  With a patient nod, the elder spokeswoman retreated. “You are always welcome if you wish. I don’t believe you will disappear again.”

  Swallowing the lump of dough became impossible. Anger pressed against her throat instead. Ademeni looked from one blank face to another. They did not hide their joy at the return of Trajan, but took care not to show their pity for her.

  She raised her chin and forced the food down. No one need pity her. Perhaps she needed to be reminded of her homeland, her people. If nothing else, she could hold her head high, remember her father and say a prayer for her kinsmen that Rome planned to sacrifice.

  She would still have her life at the end of this day. That had to count for something.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she announced. “I will go.”

  * * *

  Marcus wiped the dust from his face with one hand while tightening the reins to his mount with the other. The stallion pranced, impatient to move.

  No more impatient than he. Trajan’s delays tested the will of the most disciplined troops. Behind him, the legion waited to begin the procession, an escort for the emperor. Waited for the cheers that served as reward for the fight. Their last official duty before being released to the streets, little more than a horde of jackals to bask in the adoration of the mob.

  His stomach soured as he adjusted his seat, the stale scent of the sewer hovering about the street. He had no proper excuse—like death—to stay home today. Never one for pomp and circumstance, his absence would have been more notable than his presence. He’d never craved public admiration.

  His heart longed to lie beside the supple body of a slave whose sprit had never been broken. He felt the imprint of her hands and the whisper of her breath lingered against his weathered skin.

  An all-too-familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. “One hundred and twenty-three days.”

  Marcus didn’t need to ask Tertullian about the number. By now, everyone in Rome had heard there would be well over one hundred days of games. He hoped they put the emperor in a generous mood. Generous enough to grant the petition Marc
us had prepared via scribe early that morning.

  “You look grim, my friend,” Tertullian cajoled him. “We should…”

  His next words were swallowed by a great roar from the crowd as Trajan made his appearance. Head high, the emperor paused to bask in their adoration before he stepped forward to be escorted to his chariot. Pristine white robes reflected the bright sunlight so that Marcus barely caught the subtle nod of appreciation Trajan cast in his direction.

  Once, that had been all he needed to pledge himself for the next campaign. Now, it seemed a hollow gesture.

  The street noise subsided by half, and as soon as Trajan was settled, he raised his hand to signal an advance. Marcus mimicked the gesture, and the might of the army lurched to life behind him.

  One would have to be numb not to feel the martial energy that swept the wide avenue. Showers of greenery and petals fluttered around them as they settled into a steady pace.

  Yet he felt nothing. Had he gone mad? All the years of fidelity tasted like bitter wine in the back of his throat. One after another, young women stepped forward, throwing flowers and pledging undying love for the emperor…for him…for anyone in a position of power.

  Julia had been no different. She had come from a lineage of politicians and warriors, and such things always needed to be secured and furthered. Their union had been practical, useful and friendly. Which had made her near-hysterical arrival in Dacia all the more puzzling. She had what she’d wanted—why follow him there and risk her life and his career?

  A shout drew his attention away. Ahead and to the right, a man darted through the crowd. His long hair and beard marked him as a foreigner.

  Veering out of formation, Marcus reached for his sword. Kneeing his mount to a steady gallop, he arrived as the man broke through the edge of the crowd and into the street.

  Intent upon reaching Trajan, the foreigner never saw Marcus. He raised his arm. A dagger glinted in his hand as it swung downward.

  Leaning to the side of his horse, Marcus grabbed the wrist of the would-be assassin. Momentum pulled Marcus backward on his horse while the crazed man was dragged forward in the street.

  Marcus understood none of his thick words but knew the accent well. He released the Dacian man to a pair of centurions, the grief in the captive’s gestures leading Marcus’s gaze back toward the passing procession.

  His heart stuttered. The prisoners. A reeking mass of humanity, dirty, starved and ill. All sacrifices to his gods. Marcus maneuvered out of the way as they passed. One man held up another. Some never saw him, while others glared in open hostility.

  A shiver passed through him. Such a great loss of life. Did the sacrifice of so many truly please the gods? Please Trajan? The victor had a right to the spoils of war. He’d never considered the other side. The losing side.

  He’d never lost, at least not in battle.

  Shaking himself free of such troubling thoughts, he galloped toward the front of the procession to fresh cheers for his heroics and retook his place at the head of the legion.

  The remainder of the route took all of the discipline instilled by years of training. Just when Marcus felt the ride would never end, they rounded a narrow curve and reached their destination—the Circus Maximus.

  Escorted by the Praetorian from his gilded chariot, Trajan swept inside the giant edifice to hold court before opening the games. Behind them, the line halted and the crowds dispersed to find the best seats for their social class.

  Tertullian clapped him on the shoulder. “Always the hero, Marcus. Do you never tire of such acclaim?”

  Marcus ignored his praise and savage smile. “Are you staying for the games?”

  “Of course. Trajan has reserved the best seats for his men today.”

  It seemed that all of Rome had arrived, yet Marcus couldn’t wait to leave. He dismounted and handed Tertullian the reins. “Wait for me.”

  He discounted the puzzled look on his second’s face and headed for the entry to seek an audience with the emperor. Only a few paces inside, a guard stopped him. “The emperor is not hearing cases, settling disputes or granting favors today. Not even for you, Marcus Cordovis.”

  He squinted at the Praetorian, didn’t know his name. “I seek an audience. When will Caesar be available?”

  “Tomorrow, after the morning games. Do you have a written request?”

  Marcus nodded and slid his hand into the saddle bag he carried over his shoulder. Holding the sealed missive aloft, he bore into the soldier with his gaze. “It’s of the utmost importance. I’ll return tomorrow before sunset.”

  The guard tugged the parchment from Marcus’s hand. “I will deliver this personally. Rest assured that he wants to see you.”

  With a curt nod, Marcus retraced his steps and jerked his reins from Tertullian, who had dismounted to go into the stadium.

  “Aren’t you staying?”

  Marcus righted himself on the horse and looked over his second’s head, into the heart of the games about to begin. In his mind’s eye, he saw the angry and frightened faces of the captive Dacian men. His stomach churned. Duty dictated he should stay, but he could not.

  “No,” he growled. “I’ve seen enough bloodshed in combat.”

  “Your presence will be missed.”

  Tertullian’s tone carried suspicion, but Marcus had no time for false explanations. He had one more stop to make—to deliver a formal request to demote Tertullian. If all went well, he would have answers to all his questions.

  * * *

  Ademeni had seen more than enough. Her blood boiled as she paced the halls of the house. Not even Callia’s sweet disposition could soften the heinous events she’d witnessed in Rome today.

  Flora glowered at her from the hearth. “Stop that incessant pacing. Did you think you were special?”

  Ademeni shot her a warning glance. She had ignored Flora’s jabs all day. After seeing her countrymen led through the streets in rags to be sacrificed at the pleasure of the emperor, her patience wore thinner than the garments the harlots wore at the public gates.

  “Did you think laying with him would save your people?”

  Ademeni whirled on the house slave—no better than she—and pummeled her. A surprised Flora pushed her backward and Lucia stepped between them.

  “Mind yourself,” the older woman warned them both with a stern look. “You forget to whom you belong.”

  “You forget my years of service to this family—to the emperor’s family.” Flora snapped her mouth shut, grabbed her wrap and stalked from the room.

  The emperor’s family? What did she mean?

  Faced with the matron of the house, Ademeni settled herself. She cast a suspicious glance at Lucia. At least Lucia had gotten the romantic match she’d wanted. Someone in this house should be happy.

  “I’m sorry you’re hurt and angry,” Lucia started, stepping forward to straighten Ademeni’s hair. “I often wonder what fate will deal us, the proud Romans, when we are finally defeated. I hope I never live to see that day.”

  Ademeni bowed her head, avoiding the sympathy offered. “I should die with my brothers.”

  “Yet you are here, and they are there. Be practical. The gods have been good to you. They favor you and they favor Marcus. Let us not ask why.”

  As Lucia punctuated her last word, the door opened and shut. Marcus strode into the atrium. In flickering candlelight, Ademeni watched him shed the heavy layers of military garb.

  She intuited his agitation from her position beside the fire. Metal rattled against stone as he threw his things into the corner. He frowned and stared at the floor, as if he wished it would open and swallow him whole.

  Lucia touched Ademeni’s arm then retreated to her room for the night, leaving Ademeni alone with her lover.

  Marcus lifted his head and met her eyes. She shivered, wondered what he saw in her tonight. All of her regret and pain—or the fire of passion that caught inside her every time he drew near?

  A combination of anger and
longing propelled her forward. His face softened as she neared, and he opened his arms. Setting aside the anguish of the day, she allowed herself to revel in the one blissful thing she’d found for a few moments.

  He swept her up and crushed her against his chest. Smelling of leather and horses, he gently set her back on her feet and smiled. “How I missed you.”

  “I saw you today…in the avenue.”

  Marcus frowned. “You shouldn’t have gone.”

  “I had to see for myself.” She shook her head. He was right—the day weighed too heavily upon her. The soldiers, the formations. Too many memories, too many familiar faces.

  “And now you’re upset.” He took her hands in his, a deep breath resonating between them. “Do you trust me at all?”

  The question jolted her. She feigned misunderstanding. “Trust you?”

  His voice held no humor. “Enough for one day?”

  “What is trust?” She wrapped her arms around him, his warm body a distraction from such a troubling question. “Come to bed.”

  Relief washed over her when he did not press for a better answer. Instead, he took her by the hand and led her to his chamber, where he pulled the curtain shut and sloughed off his tunic. She did the same and slid onto the bed, into his arms, comfortable against her will.

  Kissing her forehead, he pulled her close.

  “I don’t like how the city feels,” he confided. “Restless. Bloodthirsty. There will be plenty of trouble in the next few days.”

  Ademeni closed her eyes. “What is this? Do you have no love for Rome?”

  “I have love for what Rome represents. But the city itself? It was more Julia’s home than mine.”

  “You will see your emperor?”

  “How did you know?” Marcus propped himself up on one elbow. “I requested an audience today.”

  Her heart plummeted like a stone. Her father had always taken audience with his best warriors. Marcus’s meeting came sooner than she’d imagined. She caught her breath. “When will he see you?”