Sword of Rome

by Constance O'Banyon

  Sword of Rome

  Constance O’Banyon

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Copyright

  To Jim, who keeps the home fires

  burning when I am on deadline.

  Chapter One

  Egypt’s Western Desert

  47 B.C.

  Scattered members of the Badari Bedouin had been gathering from all corners of Egypt, their numbers swelling as they arrived to pay tribute to their leader. In Alexandria, Lord Ramtat might be a wealthy and powerful courtier, a trusted adviser to Queen Cleopatra and the husband of her half-sister, but to his loyal tribesmen, he was Sheik El-Badari, and therefore worthy of their respect.

  The Bedouin were traveling by horseback and camel, the dust clouds from their caravans stretching for miles across the desert. The arrivals would continue steadily for many weeks before all were assembled. There would be great merrymaking—banquets that would reunite old friends, wedding festivities that would strengthen new alliances, games and competitions that would allow the young men to show their skills and prowess. Then the festivities would culminate with the contest of the Golden Arrow, where the sheik himself would award the most coveted prize to the greatest warrior among the Badari.

  To escape the choking dust from the new arrivals, Heikki, son of Obet, the armorer, ducked inside the tent where the sheik’s horses were kept. Lowering his head, he wiped the palms of his hands across his stinging eyes. Though he was excited and wanted to mingle with the newcomers, Heikki put duty before pleasure. He snatched a bucket and filled it with grain, moving down the row of hobbled horses until each animal had been fed. He took great pride in the fact that the Badarian horses were the finest in the world, and Lord Ramtat’s were the best of the breed.

  He stepped to the tent opening and glanced at the hundreds of new tents that now dotted the site, some erected overnight, while many others had a more permanent appearance. A shadow fell across his face, and he turned to find his father beside him. Obet was a strong man, wide of girth. His face was creased like dark parchment, and his hands were gnarled and rough from years of hammering metal into weapons.

  “My son,” he said matter-of-factly, “I never have to ask if you have completed your duties—you are ever dependable. That is why our lord has put you in charge of his personal stable.”

  Heikki frowned, and his words came out bitterly. “Aye, I am worthy to tend his horses, but not worthy to ask for the hand of his sister in marriage,” he stated angrily.

  Obet was startled by his son’s pronouncement. “Hush, foolish one. Is the lord’s wife not sister to the queen of all Egypt? You could never be considered for such a high marriage.” Obet glanced about to make certain no one could overhear their conversation. “You are a handsome young man in your eighteenth year—many worthy women have glanced your way with hope in their eyes.”

  “I do not care about those women.”

  “Are you drunk on date wine? You are like the flowers that worship the sun—knowing they can never possess it, still they turn their blossoms skyward. You may watch Lady Adhaniá from afar, but she can never be yours. Find happiness with another, my son. Lord Ramtat’s sister will marry into her own class, as will you.”

  Heikki unthinkingly knotted the rope in his hands, pulling it tight in frustration. “My head knows this, yet my heart does not listen.”

  Obet looked at his only son with pride. Heikki stood a half-head taller than most young men of the tribe. He was square-jawed and handsome, a man of honor worthy of any woman … except the one he wanted. “My son, join the games—enjoy the entertainment,” Obet advised him, clapping him on the back. “I have seen many lovely girls arrive today. Look to one of them for solace. You only think you love Lady Adhaniá because she is the one woman you cannot have. One day you will know the difference between love and longing.”

  Heikki watched his father depart before he ducked back inside the tent and opened the spigot that allowed water to fill each trough. He was about to leave when he heard someone slip through the rear entrance. Spying a slight figure moving toward the animals, he assumed it must be one of the lads who cleaned up the horse dung. But Heikki became suspicious when the boy took the reins of the white mare that belonged to Lady Adhaniá.

  “You there!” Heikki called out, moving forward angrily. “Step away from that horse!”

  The lad, whose head was covered with a plain brown kiffiyeh of poor quality, ignored Heikki. Stepping forward, Heikki jerked the reins from the boy’s fingers. “This horse belongs to our sheik’s sister, and you will be severely punished if you don’t move away.”

  “So, you do not know me?” came the low voice, muffled behind the thick head covering.

  “You are unknown to me. But this I do know—if you value your life, leave now, or I will be forced to take you to Sheik El-Badari.”

  The youth laughed, lowering his head. “And I insist you do know who I am.”

  Heikki looked him over carefully. “You wear a robe woven of goat hair, which is a common enough garment, but your boots are made of fine sheepskin—did you steal them, little thief?”

  “I am no thief!”

  “I say you are! I know whom this animal belongs to, and it isn’t you.”

  Impish laughter made Heikki’s blood boil with anger until the lad looked up, and he saw a familiar pair of long-lashed amber eyes. Mischief danced in those golden eyes, and although she was in disguise, there was no mistaking the smooth honey-gold skin or the beautiful face of the sheik’s sister. Musical laughter rang out—familiar laughter, yet he could not credit his own eyes or ears.

  Heikki shook his head in astonishment. “Adhaniá, why are you dressed so scandalously?” he asked, almost choking on his words.

  “You see, you do know me,” she remarked with humor. “It is not a thief who takes her own horse.”

  Adhaniá lifted a finely tooled red leather saddle onto the horse’s back and buckled it in place before testing it with a hard yank to make certain it was secure. She turned back to Heikki, a satisfied smile on her lips. “You who have known me since birth and have been my longtime companion did not recognize me. Therefore, I am encouraged that my brother will not guess who I am either.”

  Heikki frowned. “It’s not seemly for you to dress in such a way.” He was still reeling from the shock of seeing her garbed in men’s clothing. They had grown up together, shared secrets, practiced with swords and bows and had been taught by the best warriors of their tribe. Even though Adhaniá was a female, the sheik had always indulged his only sister and allowed her to move freely within the camp. Adhaniá had been daring even as a child,
and she was more so now that she had become a young woman.

  “I fooled you, Heikki—admit it,” she said, laughing joyously. “I knew I could do it.”

  He was mesmerized by the sparkle in her eyes. She was so beautiful it hurt him to look at her, and she was completely unaware of the effect she had on him. They had been like sister and brother growing up, but his feelings had changed. Heikki was not sure when he had begun to love her as a man loves a woman. It happened so gradually, he had only lately become aware of his love for her. It had hit him like a bolt of lightning the first day he noticed that her once reed-thin body had developed into the soft curves of a woman. Looking at her now, his mouth went dry, and he could not find his voice.

  If beauty had a name, it would be Adhaniá.

  Her hair was like silken ebony, her face perfect in every detail. Her eyes were startlingly sultry and framed by a pair of long lashes. Heikki’s face reddened, and he glanced away from the tempting swell of her breasts, visible even through the heavy robe.

  “Well,” she said, turning around for his inspection so he could fully examine her Bedouin attire. “Admit it, Heikki—Ramtat will never recognize me in this.”

  “How can you be so foolish?” he answered, unwilling to encourage her in her madness. “He will know you at first glance, as I would have if you had not kept your head down.”

  Ignoring his tirade, she smiled and wrinkled her nose at him, debating whether or not to tell him of her plan.

  “You can’t let the sheik see you like this,” he continued. “You will be disgraced. Is that what you want?”

  For a moment she stood rigid and silent, then she frowned. “You remind me of a disgruntled old goatherder with your complaining. I am determined to join the contest of the Golden Arrow,” she said mutinously. “Ramtat will be proud of me if I win.”

  Heikki’s face drained of color, and he reached out to grip her shoulder. The sheik guarded his sister like the precious treasure she was, and he would not be pleased if she made a spectacle of herself. “You can’t do it, Adhaniá.”

  She brushed his protests aside. “Think about this—why was I allowed to train with the sword and bow if I am denied the use of them? Why was I allowed to race with you if I am forbidden to exhibit my horsemanship?”

  “Sheik El-Badari may have allowed you to train with me, but that was when we were children—he is proud of your strong sword arm, as well as your accuracy with the bow. But you are no longer a child. He will expect—no, he will demand that you behave with the dignity expected of a young woman of your high station.”

  “You drone on like a bumblebee,” Adhaniá accused. “Ramtat would never stay angry with me for long. Besides, his disapproval will be worth it if I win the Golden Arrow.” She frowned and rubbed the long, sleek neck of her horse. “I still need more practice. I am having trouble stringing the bow with my horse at full gallop.” She turned her best smile on Heikki. “For three weeks now I have been practicing at the old ruins to the west. Come with me today and tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  After a moment of silence, Heikki shook his head, determined to stop her. Then she smiled, and helplessness swamped him like a torrent of waves did a small boat. Like a drowning man, he fought the urge to give in to her. “I will not help you in this. Do not ask me.”

  Her smile widened, and she touched his hand coaxingly.

  “In three more full moons the contests begin. Come with me so you can see how I have progressed in my bowmanship.”

  “If I assist you in this, I will be as guilty as you.” His protest sounded feeble even to his own ears.

  Adhaniá turned her head and looked up into his face, her grin impish. She knew just how to win him over—she always had. “I absolve you of any guilt.”

  His instinct was to deny her, but his heart never could. “I will go with you, but only in hope of pointing out your recklessness. I warn you, what you are doing will lead to trouble.”

  She laughed as she vaulted onto her horse, flashing him her most charming smile—and no one could be more charming than Adhaniá when she wanted her own way.

  “You are far too squeamish. I will wait until you are mounted, and we will race to see who is first to reach the ruins.”

  “You have lost all your senses,” he grumbled. “But no one can stop you when you have your heart set on something.”

  “No one knows me better than you, Heikki,” she said, hoping to tease him into good humor. “Come, we are wasting the day arguing.”

  Adhaniá whirled her prancing horse around, her laughter dancing on the air, lifting Heikki’s heart. In that moment the wind ripped the kiffiyeh from her head and sent it careening through the air. He watched as she started off at a gallop, her ebony hair flying out about her. He bounded onto his own horse and raced to catch her.

  Though he knew he should stop her, he could deny her nothing.

  Chapter Two

  The Roman Countryside

  The sun was at its zenith when six mounted soldiers arrived at the work site. The commander, Tribune Marcellus Valerius, who rode in the lead, wore a plumed helmet, while the other soldiers’ helmets were ornamented with stiff horsehair. As the tribune dismounted, he bade his men to seek shade against the oppressive heat. As he moved forward, the midday sun reflected off his bronze armor, momentarily blinding Haridas, the stonemason who approached him.

  “Greetings, Tribune,” Haridas said as he bowed low. “I’ve been expecting you since your personal servant arrived this morning. As you can see, I’ve had a pavilion erected to shade you and your soldiers, and I await your command.”

  Haridas looked at the tribune appraisingly. He was well favored in appearance—young, arrogant and privileged. Haridas was confident that the officer was too busy supervising two major projects to uncover the discrepancies in his daily logs.

  Marcellus acknowledged him with a cold stare. “I was told that the man I left in charge had taken ill and a new stonemason had replaced him. I assume that is you.”

  Beads of perspiration gathered on Haridas’s forehead, and one eye twitched nervously. “Aye, Jibade was struck by a stomach ailment and could no longer work.” Haridas lowered his head and smiled to himself, thinking no one would ever guess he had been the one who’d added a poisonous root to his predecessor’s food. “I feel privileged to be chosen to take his place, Tribune. We’re glad you have come at last …”

  Marcellus had been held up at another project, where the soil had proved too porous and the building site had to be relocated, but he was not going to explain himself to this man. “I’m here now.”

  The ingratiating smile froze on Haridas’s face, and he licked his lips nervously. He’d been paid well to discredit the tribune, but apparently he—and the man who had paid him—had underestimated Marcellus Valerius.

  This man was no fool.

  The tribune’s dark gaze swept across the project, carefully assessing each new addition with a scrutiny that momentarily disturbed Haridas. If Marc Antony had faith in the man’s abilities, he must be a power to reckon with. The stonemason mentally shrugged. He was clever himself, and he had manipulated the books in such a way that it would take months to find the hidden errors.

  He would bring this tribune down.

  Tribune Marcellus Valerius rested his hands on his hips, surveying the progress that had been made on the aqueduct during his absence. To his surprise, the project had moved ahead of schedule; the bricks on the lower level were already in place, and he could plainly see the beginning of the arches. He should be pleased, but something was not right; he felt it in his gut.

  Marcellus turned to Haridas and inspected him with the same thoroughness with which he had inspected the aqueduct. He noted that the man looked shiftily away. Marcellus didn’t care much for the man’s smile—it was too sly, as if he were hiding something. The stonemason was thin and tall, with a ruddy complexion and close-set, dark eyes. Those eyes now darted about as if he were afraid someone was going to surprise h
im from behind. Although he wore a clean white tunic, he smelled of sweat and garlic.

  “As you can see, we’re ahead of schedule, Tribune Valerius. Does that not please you?”

  “I have not yet decided,” Marcellus replied, squinting against the glare of the sun, watching a slave slap mortar on the rough stone and position another row of bricks to the arch of the aqueduct. “How do you account for the progress?”

  “Tribune, every day the workers are warned not to slack in their duties—if they do, they are whipped. They have been made aware that you would be arriving today. They’ve been informed that no man must displease you.”

  In the two months Marcellus had been away, the work had gone forward at a rapid pace. He frowned as he calculated how long it would take to complete the aqueduct. If the seasonal rains held off, it could feasibly be completed by early spring or, at the rate it was going, late winter. “What is your name, stonemason?”

  The man bowed. “I’m Haridas.”

  Marcellus regarded him intently. “Well, Haridas, this project is close to Caesar’s heart. I stopped by Aquila and the people there are in dire need—the wells have gone dry and the villagers are thirsty and forced to pay exorbitant prices for water to be hauled in by pack mule.”

  “Oh, Caesar will always remember the work done here, great Tribune. See how my workers labor. Each day they are reminded that they must please you and Caesar.”

  There was a falseness in the man’s tone that caught Marcellus’s notice. Something was not quite right about Haridas’s attitude, and it irritated him that the stonemason avoided looking him in the eye. Yet his work seemed exemplary and beyond reproach, and that was all that concerned Marcellus. He did not have to like the man.

  “I am amazed, Haridas,” Marcellus stated, watching as a load of mud bricks was hoisted into the air by a pulley. “You had a task to do and a time to complete it, and as you said, you are ahead of schedule.”

  Haridas smiled. “Since I’m working for the most renowned architect in all of Rome, I must be worthy. Everyone knows you are the son of General Valerius, an honorable man, well respected by all before his untimely death. And look at you now,” Haridas continued, unaware that the tribune had stiffened, “your mother is married to Senator Gnaeus Quadatus. It is an honor to work for a man from such a family. If there is anything you want of me, you have only to ask.”