Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  Caelina rushed toward him. “What happened?”

  “Get out of my villa. Do not return unless I send for you.” When she didn’t move, Torren’s blood-stained fingers bit into her upper arm as he yanked her toward the door. “I want you out of here, now.”

  “Torren, stop.” She resisted and stumbled across the stone floor.

  Jonathan’s entire body tightened as he tried to sit up. “Stop it. You’re hurting her.”

  Torren threw him a glare so full of venom that for the first time, Jonathan feared him. “Be silent. You and I will speak later.” Torren pulled Caelina through the doorway and down the hall. She continued to protest, her angry voice carrying back to him.

  He tried to sit up again, intent on following. A wave of nausea stronger than he was pushed him back on the bed. He might not be able to move, but God certainly could.

  Father, protect Caelina as You protect Nessa. Let Your truth take root in her heart and bring her to repentance quickly. Strengthen and guide me through these storms. The one that remains in my body and the one I fear is coming.

  Chapter 37 – Assassins

  Torren washed the dried blood from his dagger, the image of Caelina screaming “I never want to see you again” burned indelibly in his mind. Even if there had been time, he wouldn’t have been able to explain without placing her in more danger. The safest place for her was as far from him as possible, and that knowledge hurt as much as the wound on his arm.

  Rufus approached with his hand out. “My lord, let me clean that.”

  “No. I want you to put Styx, Ramses, Dax, and Cam on watch tonight with Wolf and Prito. No switching off. They guard sunup to sundown. Unlock the weapons chest and see they all carry steel. If they see any riders approaching, they’re to alert and arm the others.”

  His head servant’s normally stoic demeanor faltered. “My lord?”

  “Relay my order, Rufus. No more questions.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Torren sheathed the dagger and strode for the medicus chamber. If the six men who ambushed him and Rooster outside the city were assassins sent by Caesar, Domitian knew by now Torren had escaped.

  Otho stood in the hall, waiting for him there as he had at the gate when Torren first arrived. “My lord, I wanted to—”

  “Caelina orders every man about as if he’s a slave, and while Rufus is, you are not. I return to find she has made herself not only master of my villa again, but this time my medicus as well.”

  Otho’s gaze narrowed. “You bend to her every whim, yet we are expected to stand against her?”

  Torren’s fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. “You have one hour to collect your belongings and be on the other side of my walls.”

  Otho’s mouth parted and he raised his hands palms up. “All the years I served your family count for nothing against the whining of that prostitute?”

  “This isn’t about Caelina. This is about my champion. You said you were sedating him for pain. Pain, Otho!” Torren was in plenty himself right now, spurring his anger. “She told me you gave him enough opium to nearly kill him instead of closing his wounds properly.”

  “Stitching them all would have taken a full day. You don’t know how many there were.”

  “Oh yes I do. I had to watch them given from the first to the last. If you value your life, you will leave now without another word.”

  “You owe me for the month of Iulius.”

  “Take an ox and cart. That’s worth far more than you deserve.”

  Torren didn’t wait for a reply, if the man would be foolish enough to give one. He brushed past him to the chamber and slammed the door behind him.

  Jonathan sat in bed eating grapes from a bowl as if it were rest day. If he’d killed his opponent that day as commanded, none of this would be happening. His frown when their gazes met, as if he were the one with a right to disapprove, grated on Torren. He was about to tell him so when Jonathan spoke first.

  “You needn’t have been so rough with Caelina.”

  Without truly deciding to, Torren lurched forward and backhanded him across the face.

  Jonathan’s head rocked on his shoulders and banged the plastered wall beside him. The bowl of grapes fell, the clatter of wood on stone as it rolled echoed all around while Torren stared at it in disbelief.

  He’d just broken the foremost rule of his ludis. How many times had he told the others? Never strike another in anger, outside of training and combat. And he’d just done that very thing. Unease whirled through his empty stomach and his chest heaved. But regret would serve no purpose. It was done. So why couldn’t he bring himself to meet Jonathan’s gaze?

  “There’s a paste in that bowl there.” His champion’s voice held no malice. “It will ease the pain of your wound and speed healing, but you’ll have to have Otho apply it and wrap your arm. I don’t think my hands would be steady that long.”

  Torren stared at the grapes on the floor at his feet. Torren would rather Jonathan had tried to strike him back. “I sent Otho away.”

  “Why?”

  “You need ask?” Torren met Jonathan’s stare then.

  The sight of the new cut on Jonathan’s brow pained him more than his own wound, which he set about tending. Jonathan watched him but remained silent. Torren preferred that for now. The strange smelling, rust-colored paste did take the sting from the gash as promised. After tying off a new wrap with his other hand and his teeth, no more reasons remained to ignore Jonathan.

  “Do you need something for your eye?” he asked him.

  Jonathan touched the small wound with his fingertips. The thin line of blood must have dried, because none came away on his fingertips. “No. I’m fine.”

  Torren sighed and collapsed on the stool beside the bed. No one in this villa was fine. Not while Emperor Domitian still lived. “Rooster’s dead.”

  Saying it out loud was as difficult as it was for Jonathan to hear, judging by his champion’s expression.

  “We may all be dead by morning. That’s why I had to send Caelina away.”

  “Then I need a tunic and a sword.” Jonathan shifted under the blanket, but Torren put a firm hand to his shoulder.

  “No. You need to heal. You’re the best sword I have, the best I’ve ever seen, but if the men that attacked us were sent by Caesar, not even you can save us.”

  A long moment passed before Jonathan spoke. “This is my doing.”

  “Yes, it is.” Torren regretted the terseness, but it was the truth.

  Jonathan leaned to rest his head against the wall and clutched the blanket at his waist tighter. “I didn’t intend to bring danger to you or my brothers.”

  “It is your fault, but not for the reason you believe.” Torren drew a deep breath and held it. Rooster was dead, and if they survived the night, Jonathan would need to take his place. It was time to tell him. Everything. The spent air in his lungs left him in a rush. “I’m part of an alliance to assassinate the emperor.”

  Jonathan didn’t react, but that made Torren more nervous. He waited, unsure if he should continue.

  Finally Jonathan spoke. “I’ve no affection for anyone who claims to be a god, but Domitian is no Nero.”

  “He’s smarter than Nero. He appears less a tyrant by choosing targets carefully under the guise of treason trials. Since crushing Saturninus’ rebellion in Germania, he’s made sure every general in every legion is loyal to him. The senators in the alliance supported Saturninus in secret, but they chose the wrong replacement, the wrong method, and ignored the praetorian element. Jupiter himself could descend from the heavens and name a new Caesar, but if the praetorians don’t support him, he’s dead already. That’s why I’m the emissary between the senators involved and the praetorian cohort. Only together will we succeed.”

  Jonathan eyed him warily. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  A muffled sound came from outside the door. Torren raised his finger to his lips and drew his dagger. He crept to th
e door, standing well to the side, and reached for the latch with his heart hammering his ribs. He flung the door open and nearly stabbed Rufus, who jumped back faster than Torren had seen the older man move in years.

  “Rufus. I thought—” Torren sheathed his dagger and tried to breathe deeper to slow his racing heart. “What is it?”

  “Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but Otho says you have dismissed him and given him an ox and cart. In his haste I feared he might be stealing them.”

  “He’s not stealing them. I gave him an hour to be on the other side of my walls. Are the men armed?”

  “Yes, my lord. They asked many questions. They want to know where Rooster is.”

  Of course they did. What could he tell them? “Tell them I’ll be there soon, and to keep a sharp eye toward the city.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Torren closed the door and turned back to Jonathan.

  “Are the praetorians coming?”

  “I don’t know. The prefects are part of the alliance, but if they’re compromised…” Torren shuddered at the thought. Feeling out their allegiance had taken months, followed by weeks of negotiations and committing them to the cause. They were running out of time. Domitian had declared two more wealthy nobles traitors to Rome last week. No one subjected to a treason trial was ever found innocent. Not a single person in six years. As wealthy as Torren was, especially with Jonathan, he couldn’t be far behind.

  “You said earlier I was responsible. How?”

  “The last day of the Ludi Appolinares, after the final match you were in, Prefect Norbanus was going to slay Domitian there in the pulvis. He and Secundus, with the allegiance of the unit commanders, were going to name the new Caesar. We were going to quickly sway the mob right there, who is no lover of Domitian either. The plan was perfect.”

  “What happened?”

  “You.” Torren crossed his arms over his chest. “When you didn’t give the coupe de grace, Caesar sent the prefects after you before Norbanus received the signal all was ready. Without him in place, everything collapsed.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. What does is that failure weakened the resolve of the senators outside the alliance, and I have no way of knowing if the men who attacked Rooster and me were assassins sent by Caesar.”

  “How many?”

  “Six. They wore plain clothing but each carried a gladius and knew how to use it. We killed four of them before Rooster fell. I made it back to my horse and outran the last two on the way back to the villa. They must have given up or turned back.”

  Jonathan’s eyes became slits, and his jaw tensed. “You sent Caelina directly into their path.”

  “Only two attackers remained, and their mounts are already spent. If there is a confrontation, her guards can handle them, and Caelina is very adept at taking care of herself. Besides, you know as well as I that if the full cohort marches on us, no one within these walls will be spared.”

  Torren seized a cup that looked like it held wine and downed it. Wiping the back of his mouth, he set the cup back down on the table. “If the Fates favor Rome, and us, those men were nothing more than thieves who chose the wrong victims. We should know by morning.”

  “I want to stand with you.”

  “No. You’ve been twitching since I walked in. You can’t grip a sword, much less swing it where it needs to go.”

  “I will not lie here while you and my brothers are slaughtered. I won’t. I can’t.”

  Torren pulled his sheathed dagger from his belt and set it on the mattress next to Jonathan. “I do not ask. I order you as your Dominus. If they come, do not let them take you alive. If we live there is much I will require of you, but for now pray to your God that He might spare us and we may yet set Rome free.”

  Jonathan held Torren’s dagger in his hands. Torren asking him to pray God would spare them while he plotted the murder of the emperor felt wrong. In fairness, when the guards stripped Jonathan and hung him from a beam overhead, he’d wished Caesar dead too. Torren hadn’t intervened as they prepared to give Jonathan the scourging Caesar ordered—twenty-one strokes.

  He’d been right to fear the flagrum each of the lictors held ready. The strands of the whip resembled unraveled rope. With one look at them, his hatred for his half-brother returned full force. Jonathan was a Roman citizen, exempt from scourging as a form of punishment. Not only was he a citizen, but a Tarquinius, a noble in blood and name.

  But it hadn’t mattered, because he couldn’t prove it.

  The first lictor struck him, and the intensity of the pain overwhelmed his mind. When the second lictor’s lash fell, he cried out, in spite of having purposed not to. The lictors traded blows on his back with rhythmic precision while he prayed to lose consciousness. He lost count when his mind retreated after the second blow and didn’t return until the beating ended.

  In the days that followed, while Otho doused him with opium and filled his wounds with pure salt, only thoughts of Jesus kept him together. Jesus had gone from his scourging to a cross. Jonathan had gone home.

  He’d known he would survive somehow. Even in the midst of the nightmares—Nessa trapped beneath Caius, the faces of the men whose lives he’d taken—he’d known even then that God held him.

  Torren wanted his help to kill Caesar, provided the praetorians didn’t slaughter them all first. Jonathan picked up Torren’s dagger from his blanket and held the bone handle against his chest. He needed to pray for protection for all of them, but most of all for wisdom and direction. If God’s work for him included assassinating Caesar Domitianus Augustus, God would have to write it on the wall.

  Chapter 38 – Sacrifice

  The praetorians never came, though Torren kept the men on alert for days. Jonathan recovered after weeks of bed rest and careful training Torren oversaw personally. His champion’s physical strength returned, but not the stamina. Jonathan could no longer battle rings around his opponent as he could before. If the fight wore on, his attacking blows faded to hasty blocking and his breathing labored between coughs. The only reason Jonathan never ended up in the sand with two fingers to the sky is because he could switch to that lethal left-handed fighting style at will.

  That had saved him in the arena the two times he’d fought for Caesar since the opium ordeal. In an effort to save face and show a merciful side, Caesar had invited Torren and his gladiators back to the games. But it was too little, too late. As long as Torren breathed, Caesar’s breaths were numbered.

  During that time, Torren discovered Rufus was a decent medicus in a bind. What he lacked in expertise he made up for in obedience, unlike Otho. That should have Torren in a better mood, but it didn’t. Because Caelina was still making good on her vow to never see him again.

  He’d sent scroll after scroll to her for nearly a year, apologizing for throwing her out of the villa and explaining it had been for her own protection. All returned unopened. The last one she’d taken the trouble to burn first, and Rufus carried the ashes back along with a message.

  “The lady wishes the fabled plagues of Egypt upon you, my lord.”

  So much for diplomacy.

  He should go to her himself and see if that would change her answer. Whenever he visited Rome, however, managing both the alliance and Jonathan required his full attention. Jonathan’s increased fame meant he could no longer attend the pre-game feasts safely without packing the hosting villa full of extra guards. His champion had nearly been ripped apart this spring when his amoratii broke through the perimeter of guards. Bruised and scratched back at the Ludis Maximus, the men teased Jonathan that they might as well be praetorians and he Caesar.

  Neither he nor Jonathan shared the men’s humor.

  The new date had been set. Two months to the day, September 18th, the last day of the Ludi Romani. Emperor Domitian’s stranglehold on Rome would end.

  If the plan failed again, the alliance would collapse, and even with Jonathan protecting him, the reason he�
��d involved his champions in the first place, they would all likely end up dead. All the more reason he needed to see Caelina one last time.

  Torren pulled a scroll from the pile on his desk. He’d stopped writing new ones after she’d rejected the tenth. No sense wasting parchment. “Rufus?”

  His head servant emerged from the hall. “My lord.”

  “Take this to Caelina’s villa. Take whatever coin you need and buy her the biggest pearl necklace the merchant on the Sacra Via has. You know the one, near the Arch of Titus, where I bought her the emerald earrings two years ago.”

  Rufus frowned. “My lord, with your permission, I shall send Ica in my stead. He’s trustworthy and will carry out your wishes as if he were me.”

  Torren studied his servant’s downcast eyes. The man had never refused a command before. “Why don’t you want to go?”

  Rufus pursed his lips and refused to look up from the floor.

  “Answer me.”

  “Forgive me, my lord. Last time she sent me away she threatened to turn her dogs loose if I returned. I’ve seen them, master. They’re as big as boars, and I believe she meant it. I don’t think she would recognize Ica, or harm him, otherwise I wouldn’t suggest it.”

  Curse her insufferable pride. He sends her from the villa in haste to protect her, and she shuns him. Jonathan spurns her and she salivates for him. The comparison spawned an idea—brilliant but devious.

  “Send Ica. But he is to tell Caelina that Jonathan wishes to see her.”

  “My lord?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  She’d be furious, but at least she’d be here and furious. An audience with her at last. “Before you summon Ica, tell Jonathan he’s to accompany me to retrieve Ramses. Have horses readied for both of us.”