As the music built to a frenzy, she whirled, gracefully removing the blue costume and tossing it aside. Now she wore the thin vermillion costume. Her stomach was bare, and when she moved her hips, her long, shapely legs were visible through the filmy material. With the last haunting sound of the flute, she gave a great leap into the air, tossing the torch to the drummer, who aptly caught it and extinguished the flame.
Adhaniá immediately bowed and went to her knees, then touched her forehead to the floor.
The chamber was silent.
She raised her head, thinking the Romans had not enjoyed her dance because they showed no reaction, when, in truth, they were transfixed. One man stood up drunkenly, reeling in her direction, before Quadatus intercepted him.
“Sit down, Bartatus, she is not for you.”
“Never have I seen such beauty of motion,” the drunk said, reluctant to sit. “I want only to touch her. Surely she will not object to that.”
Adhaniá cringed inside at other crude remarks, but she acted as if she understood nothing that was being said. She rose gracefully to her feet and flourished her hands in an elegant movement.
“Did I not say you would like her?” Quadatus gave Cassius a satisfied smirk. “These natives from Egypt dance like no other women.”
“I would pay five hundred danarii for such a woman,” Cassius admitted. “Were it possible to own her, I would give even more.”
Quadatus was glad he had at last provided something for Cassius to admire. “I don’t believe my stepson will part with her, since she was a gift from Queen Cleopatra.”
“I would speak to her,” Cassius said, his eyes narrowing. “Have her come to me.”
“Come here, girl,” Quadatus called to Adhaniá. “I would visit with you.”
Adhaniá took a hesitating step, then shrugged her shoulders as if she had not understood what he wanted. Cassius’s face was wet with sweat, and since he was a huge man, his toga had bunched at his waist in a wet circle. She saw lust in the depths of his eyes. She had been warned that she would be tested and must not be fooled.
Cassius motioned to her. “Come here, little dancer. I have some news to impart to you.”
Cautiously, Adhaniá approached the couch where the two senators waited. She glanced from one to the other, deliberately acting as if she were confused.
“Look how her skin shimmers like gold, and her eyes are most unusual,” Quadatus remarked. He touched Adhaniá’s hair, and she forced herself to stand there emotionlessly. “This dancer is a jewel beyond price.”
Heikki stepped forward with murder in his eyes, but Marcellus pulled him back. “I like it no less than you do,” he said, wishing he could rip out his stepfather’s throat. “This is why she is here. Adhaniá knows what she’s doing.”
“Do you understand me, woman?” Cassius asked, watching Adhaniá closely. “Do you speak Latin?”
She said something back to him in a language he did not understand.
“You can see,” Quadatus said, “it is just as I told you—she speaks the gibberish of some desert tribe. Do you speak Egyptian, girl?” Quadatus asked, saying the few words he knew in Egyptian.
Again Adhaniá answered in the Bedouin dialect.
There was a satisfied smile on Heikki’s face, and he leaned back and whispered to Marcellus, “She just told your stepfather he has the manners of a swine, and she said Senator Cassius smells of camel dung.”
Marcellus was not amused. He wanted to take her away from this house. He pulled his hood forward and leaned against the wall, ready to rescue Adhaniá if one of the men went too far.
Cassius stared at the dancer for a long moment, then reached out and seized her arm. “I believe she understands everything we say.” He drew her closer to him so he could watch her face. “I have just heard the saddest bit of news,” he said, touching her shoulder and dragging his finger across the arch of her neck. “ ’Tis tragic, really. Have you heard that Queen Cleopatra met her death today? I learned about it just before I arrived.”
Adhaniá felt a stabbing pain in her heart, and she could not catch her breath. She felt tears gathering behind her eyes, but she neither allowed them to fall nor allowed her expression to change. She shrugged her shoulders, pretending indifference and even managed to look puzzled.
Cassius continued to watch her. After a long silence, he shook his head. “No one is that good an actress—she did not understand a word I said. A woman from Egypt such as she would wail and cry if she thought her queen was dead.” He turned to Quadatus. “You do know the Egyptians look upon their queen as some kind of incarnate deity?”
Quadatus gripped her chin and stared into her eyes as if he could read the truth there. “She did not even blink when you told her about the death of her beloved queen. I am convinced she does not understand Latin. Elsewise, she would not be so calm.”
“I believe you.”
Quadatus looked amazed. “Did Queen Cleopatra really die?” He was unmindful that the girl had pulled away from him.
“Fool, I will tell you later.” Cassius took Adhaniá’s hand and led her to the couch. “Little dancer, you will sit beside me.”
Adhaniá managed to maintain her puzzled expression, and Cassius laughed delightedly. “Can you imagine owning this beauty, who could never complain because she does not know the words.”
“It’s more than probable Marcellus has already enjoyed her,” Quadatus grumbled. “I feel certain she shares his bed each night, for who could resist such a tempting morsel?” He touched her arched neck and allowed his hand to drift down and across her breast. “What I wouldn’t give to take her to my bed.”
Adhaniá wanted to strike the hateful man—she wanted to shove his hand away, but she merely smiled, reached for a grape and popped it into her mouth, the twisting movement taking her breast away from his hand.
Heikki could stand no more—he marched forward, glaring at the men. Grasping Adhaniá’s hand and helping her to stand, he said in halting Latin, “She will leave now.”
“It is yet early. Allow her to linger a little longer,” Cassius said, gripping her arm.
Adhaniá brushed the fat senator’s hand away and said to Heikki in Bedouin, “Get me away from here. I cannot abide their hands on me.” To the men, she smiled sweetly, posed her hands together and bowed toward them.
“Do not worry,” she heard Quadatus remark. “I will ask my stepson to send her to us another night.”
Cassius sat forward, his gaze following the swaying hips of the beauty. “I want her to dance for me again. Arrange it for this same night next week.”
Quadatus’s eyes gleamed with triumph. Perhaps it was time to get his stepson out of the way once and for all. Then Sarania would inherit all of Marcellus’s property, including the little dancing girl. “I shall see what I can do.”
Adhaniá ran out of the room and down the corridor, not stopping until she was outside. Glancing around to see if anyone was nearby, she took a deep breath and fought against tears. Burying her face in her hands, she whispered to Heikki, “Tell me quickly—is the queen dead?”
He shook his head. “Nay, she is not.”
Adhaniá’s cape was draped across Marcellus’s arm, and he gently placed it about her shoulders. “Your queen is not dead. It was merely Cassius’s way of testing you. I know not how you endured the news as well as you did. Queen Cleopatra would be proud of you.”
Adhaniá spun around to face Marcellus. “You! You are not Apollodorus.”
“Shh,” he cautioned quietly, reminding her that others might be watching. He placed his hand on her arm … his gaze soft, his hand gentle, almost caressing. “Did you think I would not be here with you? Would I allow such a jewel to go unguarded?”
“Take me home,” she said, climbing into the litter beside Layla.
Marcellus drew the curtains. “I’m sorry you had to endure this humiliation tonight.”
She felt her cheeks burn—Marcellus had witnessed the Dance of the Flames, a
nd she wished he had not. She buried her face in the silken cushion and closed her eyes in shame. It was over, and she had heard nothing worthy of reporting to the queen.
But she knew in her heart she would be required to return the following week—how would she endure it?
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was in the early morning hours just before dawn when the storm struck with such suddenness, it woke Adhaniá from an exhausted sleep. She hurried to the arched doorway to watch thunder and lightning chase each other across the night sky, illuminating the garden in bright flashes.
Adhaniá was now fully awake and realized there would be no more sleep for her tonight. She glanced at the couch where little Thalia slept peacefully, unaffected by the violent storm.
With her mind on what had happened earlier in the evening, she shuddered. It had been degrading when Senator Cassius stroked her with his disgusting touch. Disregarding the rain, she moved quietly out of her bedchamber so she would not awaken Thalia.
Adhaniá glanced longingly across the courtyard to a wide arched doorway—a servant had informed her when she’d first arrived that Marcellus’s bedchamber was across the garden from hers. She was drawn to him in a way that kept her off balance. If only her mother were with her, Larania could explain the confusion and longing that battled inside her.
She yearned for the sight of Marcellus and the touch of his hand on hers. When she awoke each morning, he was her first thought, and when she sought her bed at night, her last thoughts were of him. Her attachment to Marcellus had nothing to do with his handsomeness. He was as honorable and as determined in his duty to Rome as she was to Egypt. She wanted to be with him every waking hour, but that was not possible. If Ramtat had already decided on a husband for her, and if he persisted in the match, she was bound by honor to marry whomever her brother had chosen. It was the Badari way.
A sudden gust of wind shredded scarlet blooms off lily plants near a fountain, scattering them across the stone walkway, reminding her of blood. Rain pelted down in heavy drops, and Adhaniá gathered her cloak about her with the intention of returning to her bedchamber. But she paused, straining her eyes against the darkness. A shadowy figure detached itself from the hedge at the far end of the garden. At first she thought it might be one of the servants, but when a flash of lightning played across the figure of a man, she watched him pull back into the shadows in an attempt to hide himself.
An intruder!
Adhaniá quickly ducked behind the fountain, waiting for the man to make his next move.
Should I cry out for help?
Who would hear above the noise of the storm?
When the trespasser finally did emerge from the darkness, she watched him inch forward, guessing his destination. He was heading straight for Marcullus’s bedchamber. There was no time to seek help. If the intruder was going to be stopped, she would have to do it herself.
Her heart slammed against her chest when the man disappeared inside, and she ran across the garden with no thought of her own safety. When she stepped inside the darkened bedchamber, she waited for the next flash of lighting so she could locate the intruder.
Adhaniá gasped, and her blood turned to ice—lightning flashed across a shiny blade that was raised and ready to strike Marcellus while he slept. Without pausing to think, she rushed at the intruder, grabbed his arm, and a violent struggle ensued. She was determined to keep a firm grasp on the arm that held the dagger. With all her strength, she attempted to pull him away from Marcellus. Adhaniá was strong, but the intruder was stronger.
“No! You will not do this,” she cried.
The man turned his fury on Adhaniá—the blade pierced the fleshy part of her arm, then she felt it slide toward her neck. Her arms trembled with the effort she was expending. She cried out when he held the point of the blade against her throat.
Suddenly she was free, and someone knocked her to the floor. In the darkness, she heard a scuffle, and then a piercing cry, and a body landed on the floor next to her.
“Marcellus!” she whimpered, jerking back when she felt someone touch her.
“It is I,” he said, kneeling beside her and holding her against him. She couldn’t seem to stop trembling even though she was safe in Marcellus’s arms.
“Did he hurt you?” she asked, turning her face to his bare chest, feeling his arms tighten about her.
Marcellus scooped her into his arms and placed her on his bed, leaving her long enough to strike a flint to light a lantern. In the flickering light, he bent to the man lying face up with a dagger in his chest. Removing the dagger, he studied the man’s face. “He’s dead.”
Adhaniá shivered from cold, from fear, but mostly from relief—Marcellus was safe! It could very well have been he lying dead instead of the intruder.
* * *
Marcellus threw his cape over Adhaniá, then turned to the servants who had apparently heard the commotion and burst into the bedchamber. “Take the body away,” he ordered.
The servants worked quickly—two carried the body out of the chamber while another cleaned the blood off the floor.
Marcellus paced the chamber, his gaze falling on Adhaniá. When he saw that blood had soaked through his cape, he called out to a servant, “Bring healing ointment and bandages.” He went down on his knees beside Adhaniá so he could examine the wound more closely.
He frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me he stabbed you? The wound is deep. Are you in pain?”
“In truth, I hardly feel anything at all.”
“You are pale,” he said, taking the tray from a servant and sending him out of the room with a nod of his head.
Adhaniá winced as he cleaned the wound. She bit her lip to keep from crying out when he poured an herbal concoction over the wound. Her face whitened, and she shivered from cold as well as pain.
He bandaged her arm, and when he was satisfied the bleeding had stopped, he stood. “You will need to remove your wet clothing. You can pull my cape about you for modesty’s sake, and then I want to know exactly why I found you in my bedchamber wrestling with a man who was bent on killing me.”
“You must turn around,” she said, sliding off the bed, her teeth chattering.
He poured her a glass of wine and kept his back to her while she undressed. “May I turn now?”
“I am covered.”
He swung around to her and was suddenly struck by what she had done for him. She looked so small and helpless in the cape that pooled at the floor around her feet. “Drink this,” he said, handing her the wine. He waited until she took a few sips and saw that she was still trembling.
Adhaniá was surprised when Marcellus scooped her into his arms and seated himself on the bed, holding her in his lap. “I am only trying to warm you while you tell me what happened,” he assured her when she attempted to move out of his arms.
She had been so frightened, and now her wound had started throbbing and aching. “I was in the garden, and I saw someone sneaking in this direction.”
She was so slight; he wondered at her strength. “What were you doing in the garden on such a night?”
“The storm woke me.”
“And we all know you go charging into the fray.” He smiled down at her. “So you came to save my life.”
She turned her face up to his. “I didn’t stop to think. My brother says that is one of my failings.”
Marcellus held her close while new and deep emotions swamped him. “When I awoke and saw you struggling with that man, I feared for you.” He lightly touched her cheek. “You spilled your blood for me.”
“I would have done the same for anyone.”
“If the man’s thrust had been truer, you would have more than a wound.” He felt a sharp ache, thinking how she had risked her life to save his. “Little Bedouin princess, you have attached yourself to my life and have done me only good.”
She pulled back and looked at him. “Who was that man? Why did he want to harm you?”
“His name was Hari
das. He once worked for me as a stonemason.”
“But why did he sneak into your house when everyone was sleeping?”
Marcellus closed his eyes and pressed her against his chest. “I know who sent him. I do not yet know why.”
She pulled away and looked into his eyes. “Who sent him?”
He lifted the wine goblet to her lips, insisting she take another sip. “An enemy of Rome,” he said in anger, his thoughts on his stepfather. “A man who allies himself with Caesar’s enemies.”
“What will you do?”
He took a deep breath. “Bide my time. Watch and see what my stepfather will do next.”
“Your step—”
He placed his finger over her mouth. “You are hurt, cold and weary from your struggle. Try not to think about what happened here tonight. Think only that I owe you my life.” He pressed the wine to her lips once more and watched her take a deep drink.
She curled up in his arms, and he felt her sigh.
“You have brought me luck, little dancer.”
All her pent-up emotions shook her, and she was overcome with weariness. She yawned, saying, “By Badari practice, when someone saves a life, he is responsible for that person’s well-being until death.”
He smiled down at her, knowing the wine was taking effect; her eyes had already drifted shut. “Then I place my life into your care, my dearest heart.”
Marcellus knew the moment she fell asleep, for she went limp against him. He touched his lips to hers, but she did not respond. A feeling of possessiveness took hold of him—she was his, and he dared anyone to say otherwise. Adhaniá had danced her heart out tonight, not for her native Egypt but for Rome. Rome owed her a debt.
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