by Kayse, Joan
“Isn’t it a wonder,” she said nervously as he continued to stare at her. “How do you suppose he does that?”
Damon spared a glance at the juggler who was circulating an assortment of silver balls and knives high in the air above his head. He had taught himself how to juggle as a boy—in the few precious hours a slave had free from his duties—practicing with pieces of rotten fruit and bronze plates whose dents had baffled the family cook. Like espionage, it was a skill that required perfect coordination, balance and intense concentration. The smallest distraction could ruin the rhythm.
Of course Julia was no small distraction. Damon doubted that with her looking at him as she was now—with sea-blue eyes fringed in thick, golden brown lashes—that he could manage even one large ball tossed into the air with both hands.
He snatched his chalice from the table and took a fortifying drink of wine. “Practice,” he answered hoarsely. “A lot of practice.” Her brows furrowed together as she stared at him. Wonderful. Now she thought him not only a fool, but a half- witted one as well.
Damon concentrated on the trio of acrobats who had replaced the troublemaking juggler. This newly discovered imagination of his was proving to be a problem. Julia was a Roman noble and he an ex-slave, a man who existed on the periphery of society. He smirked. Given his current circumstances it would be safe to say he was not as talented a spy as he’d once believed. He was so far below her in status that she’d have to look beneath the street into the sewers to find him.
Still, the thought of holding her soft curves against him, kissing those noble lips until he was drunk with the taste of her, woke a need deep within his very core.
Damon drained his cup, held it out for a slave to replenish. What in the name of all the gods was wrong with him? He’d never allowed sentimentality or lust to influence his decisions before and he would not compromise his current situation with it now. Julia needed him to play the role of husband and he needed the opportunities the position afforded him to investigate the events behind his near execution.
He was well into his fourth cup, the warmth of the wine doing little to dampen the fire in his blood, when he noticed a slave approaching Quintus’ divan. Pretending nonchalance, he tipped the goblet up to mask the fact that he was trying to hear what was said. But the servant, well versed in discretion, murmured low in the Prefect’s ear, bowed, and blended skillfully into the background. Quintus demeanor went from calm, cool arrogance to agitated. A man like the Prefect knew how to mask his feelings but whatever news the slave had delivered had shaken the man. Damon smiled into his cup. Good. A shaken man makes mistakes.
Quintus delayed only a moment before sliding off the cushions and stalking out the door. Damon resisted the urge to follow, taking time to eat a handful of olives. Assured that the rest of the guests were completely engrossed in a pair of contortionists who were twisting their bodies into impossible positions, Damon rose to his feet. Julia’s gaze immediately locked on him. He bent down and brushed a kiss to her temple, savored the scent of roses before pulling away. “Do not fret, goddess. I am not running away, merely relieving myself of our host’s wide range of spirits. I will be but a moment.”
She gave him a doubtful look. “Do not linger.”
“Isn’t that lovely,” crooned a nearby matron. “She cannot abide him being gone from her side.” The woman slapped a balding man next to her. “A lesson you would do well to learn, Claudio!”
Claudio blinked like an owl and released a loud belch. Damon winked at Julia, who rolled her eyes though her lips twitched with amusement. She was relaxed, he realized, and in that brief moment the façade of aristocracy lowered revealing a normal woman. Gods, he wished he could stay and coax more humor from her. Despite the lowering of her guard, she still watched as he weaved between milling servants. A simple matter of stealth gained from years traversing the seedy underbelly of the Empire, and he appeared to be doing exactly what he’d said.
Appearances were never what they seemed.
In moments, he was on the same path Quintus had taken.
Damon considered the three corridors that converged at the entrance to the dining room. The one on the right appeared to lead into the private quarters of the immense house. Quintus wouldn’t go there unless he had a rendezvous with a female and he’d not looked like a man anticipating pleasures of the flesh.
The left to the kitchens as evidenced by harried slaves bustling along the corridor with enormous trays laden with food and drink for the dinner guests. It would be beneath the Prefect to traverse the same hall as slaves. That left the shorter center walkway. It ended at a solid bronze door that he’d noted was shut tight when they’d passed by on the way to dinner. Now, a thin sliver of light filtered out around the frame. Seeing no easy concealment, he strolled to the archway. With a glance to assure he’d not been noticed, he eased the door open and slipped through.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the faint illumination cast by a three-quarter moon and the few torches scattered throughout the heavily foliaged garden. He slowed his breathing, cocked his head and listened—the chirp of crickets, the muted rattle and clatter of pots and pans from the cooking area, distant laughter and applause from the guests, a muffled curse.
Curse?
Damon strained to listen, but was met with silence. Keeping to the shadows, he ventured further along the limestone pathway, careful not to make any noise, which was damn near impossible considering all the aristocratic finery Julia had draped upon him. He sounded like a huge cymbal. He lifted the heavy medallion from around his neck and slipped it beneath his tunic.
The path ended at a large patio ringed with marble benches and six Doric-style columns. He scanned the area, searched for any break in the dark outline of the shrubs. When several long minutes passed with only the melodious song of night insects disturbing the tranquil scene, he frowned. His suspicions must have been misplaced though he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling prickling the back of his neck. But the truth was if he stayed gone much longer, Julia would call out a search party.
“By Jupiter, you dare much coming here.”
Damon just managed to duck behind one of the columns before Quintus and another man entered the terrace.
A familiar voice answered. “I assure you, my Lord Prefect, the matter is most urgent.”
Damon peered around the pillar at Tertius Maximinus. His eyes narrowed, his hand fisted against the etched marble. Only years spent as a slave learning to hide his own emotions, gauging his own reactions lest his master think he was less than devoted, kept him from launching himself at the corpulent toad and choking the life out of him.
Quintus huffed out an impatient breath. “What could possibly be so important that you risk my wrath?”
“Theophilus has gone missing.”
Theophilus? Damon searched his memory for the name but could not come up with it.
“Nonsense,” Quintus said, waving a dismissive hand at the Senator. “Theophilus is too well paid to be missing.”
A sneer crept across Tertius’ face before he replaced it with a bland expression. “I’m telling you he has disappeared.”
Quintus paused in arranging the edge of his tunic sleeve and glared at Tertius. “You risked being exposed to bring me news that an underling has failed to show himself?”
Tertius straightened his shoulders indignantly. “No one would know who I am. I shed my Senatorial toga, donned the plainest clothes. Why, I am nearly dressed as a beggar.”
Damon curled his lip in disgust. Leave it to Tertius to mistake expensive linen robes as rags. He shifted his gaze back to the Prefect. Quintus looked thoroughly bored.
“When he’s had enough drinking and whoring and in need of more coin, he’ll show himself.”
Tertius took a hesitant step forward. “Prefect. Theophilus disappeared after the executions.”
Quintus sobered. He pinned Tertius with a hard glare. “That was seven days before the Ides.”
Eight
days, Damon corrected mentally. But then only a man about to die would have paid attention to such a small detail.
“Why did you not bring me this news sooner?” asked Quintus in a sharp voice.
“I didn’t think it important. Not with the troublemakers out of the way,” answered Tertius, wringing his hands. “But now the new suppliers have started balking at the arrangement and without Theophilus to enforce your...ummm...requests, I fear their objections may reach the Emperor’s ear.”
Quintus snarled. “Do they not remember what happened to those who question the arrangement? Show them the rotting corpses along the Via Appia, refresh their memories.”
“That is the only thing keeping them in line—for now.” Tertius shook his head. “These plebeians are tight-lipped. They do not trust strangers easily and I no longer have a reliable source feeding me information.” He drew himself up to his full stature, which barely reached Quintus’ shoulder, and said in a chiding voice, “Remember, I sacrificed my best spy to keep our venture secret.”
Damon clenched his jaw, the truth of his suspicions burning a hole in his gut. Tertius had set him up to die. And for what reason? What venture? The only information he’d been instructed to gather had concerned business volume, suppliers and the like. A cold, hollowness opened in his chest. Could the information he’d obtained and passed on have led to fifty innocent deaths?
“There is more,” Tertius said, “As you well know, my lord, Theophilus has been restless, demanding greater compensation, making veiled threats against our venture. My sources tell me that in the days before his disappearance Theophilus was seen skulking about the Manulus villa.” He took a long breath. “If we had not...”
The shallow light did not give Damon a clear view of Quintus’ expression but his reaction to the unspoken statement was not hard to judge. The rage emanating from the man was so thick it had silenced even the chirping crickets.
“Damn Octavian Manulus and his meddling.” He fixed a baleful eye on Tertius. “I will not tolerate more complications! You will make certain the tradesmen understand the benefits of their cooperation, with fists and knives if need be. I will concentrate my efforts on ensuring Manulus’ cooperation. He can hardly press charges against his son-in-law.”
Tertius looked confused. “But I heard at my arrival that Julia Manulus has taken a husband. Will she divorce him so soon?”
No, thought Damon grimly, but she could become a widow very quickly.
Quintus ignored Tertius’ question. “I want Theophilus found. Do I make myself clear?”
Tertius swallowed audibly. “Yes, Prefect. But if the Emperor discovers...”
“He won’t,” Quintus cut him off. “Not if you do what you are told. Now be gone.”
Tertius practically fell over his feet as he scrambled out of the garden.
“Imbeciles. I am surrounded by imbeciles,” Quintus muttered before following after Tertius.
Damon eased away from the column and stared down the path they had taken. In all of his years of service to Tertius, he had never known of any association with Quintus Marcellus, had never even met the man until the day he’d condemned him. If he had not recognized it before, there was no doubting it now—the Prefect was a dangerous man.
A cold chill gripped him. Whatever scheme the Prefect was involved in, it was clear that Julia was in more danger than she ever imagine, and his own position as her husband even more precarious. Quintus needed her—or something in her possession—for a reason and would stop at nothing until he had her within his control.
A muscle flexed in his jaw as a fierce wave of protectiveness welled up within him. Quintus would have to get through him first.
****
Where was he?
Julia twisted her ring. Damon had had more than enough time to take care of nature’s needs. He’d also had enough time to slip out of the villa and disappear, leaving her to the pack of jackals known as Rome’s elite. How would she explain the disappearance of a husband who had only just appeared?
The last of the entertainers flipped, jumped and jiggled their way out of the dining room bowing and grinning like fools at the enthusiastic applause of the guests and scrambling for the coins tossed their way. Julia added her own listless salute, her gaze drifting to the doorway Damon had exited. Her heart thumped in her chest, anxiety plucking at her nerves threatening to catapult her out of her seat and into a frantic search for him. That would raise a few eyebrows.
What if he had decided to abandon her? It would be a simple matter for him to vanish out the back entrance, melt into the night, and return to his criminal life unscathed. He would suffer no repercussions. The shame and disgrace would fall completely on her head—where it belonged.
Her mood darkened further when Quintus returned to the gathering, expression smooth and benign as always but quiet. Julia swallowed hard, put a hand to her pounding chest. Silence from the Prefect was never a good thing.
“Wife, that scowl would cause Medusa herself to turn to stone.”
Damon had returned. He’d not stolen away. He’d not revealed her as a fraud.
He’d not been harmed.
Julia schooled her features into her own mask, more an attempt to conceal her inner thoughts from herself rather than the other guests. Worried for his safety? Gods, she’d consumed too much wine. Before the thought finished forming, it was scattered by the warmth of Damon’s breath against the nape of her neck. Julia closed her eyes against the shiver it sent through her, only to gasp as he followed the same path with the heat of his lips. Her lips parted and she tried to form a discreet admonishment but as if divining her thoughts, he silenced her by cupping her head in his hand to take her mouth in a warm, languid kiss.
The impulse to wrench away lest their image of wedded bliss unravel melted away beneath his heat. Vague thoughts that she was playing her part, the devoted wife and—gods help her—an ardent lover evaporated beneath sensation. What was he doing to her? She needed to put a stop to it. Instead she leaned into him.
Damon paused, pulled away from the kiss allowing Julia’s thoughts to gain some foundation. She opened her eyes and locked gazes with him. There was no amusement, no taunting within those silvered depths only curiosity, questioning and wariness. One part of her knew where they were, exposed among the society that would be appalled if they knew the truth of her guise. Yet another side felt as if they were alone.
A slight smile curved Damon’s mouth before he took hers again. Enough sanity had returned to her that Julia circled his wrists to pull them apart. But it was like trying to break iron. He deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking hers in rhythm with the hands that caressed the nape of her neck. A low moan bubbled in her throat which he muffled with one of his own. Who needed air when every sense she possessed was being scattered to the winds?
Too soon, it ended. Dazed, Julia swayed a little only to be steadied by Damon’s hand splayed on her back. She looked up to find everyone’s attention centered on them. Quintus’ glare should have set them both on fire. Julia’s humiliation was complete, more so because she could not wholly blame Damon.
Julia clenched her teeth. Her instructions to him had been clear; act as an escort, nod when appropriate, speak only when spoken to and stay by his wife’s side. In the course of a few hours, he’d ignored every directive and taken great delight in causing a spectacle and, she thought darkly, rousing unwanted feelings within her. He needed a reminder of his place. She opened her mouth to admonish him but swallowed the words at the warning glint in his eyes.
He turned to Hespera and Caucus. “My wife and I thank you for a delightful feast.” His gaze encompassed the room, lingering on a scowling Quintus before resting on her again. “But the hour grows late and being newly wed, Julia and I crave the comfort of our bed.”
Her cheeks burned at the tittering laughter of the guests. A flogging, that’s what Damon deserved for his impudence or even better, stake him to an anthill covered with honey. An image sprang unbidde
n into her mind of licking the honey off with her tongue.
But honey was expensive. No, the flogging, she decided when he winked at her, and she would wield the scourge herself. The glare she sent him did nothing to dampen the amusement shining in his eyes. Then again, it wouldn’t take that much honey.
Damon inclined his head to Quintus who narrowed his eyes in contempt. “Prefect, until we meet again.”
Horrified, Julia looked at Damon. Meet again? Had he not understood the purpose of this appearance? She did not want to see Quintus again. Damon’s presence was supposed to ensure that the Prefect left her family in peace. It was as if Damon were issuing a challenge to Quintus.
Julia gathered her dignity close for that was the only thing keeping her from erupting into pieces and thanked Hespera for her hospitality, promising to visit again soon. Spinning on her heel, she walked briskly out of the room, stiffening when Damon’s hand wrapped possessively around her waist, his hand cupping her hip.
“You’re upset,” he whispered as they descended the stairs.
“You’re very astute,” she replied through clenched teeth. Upset did not begin to describe how she felt. She was furious and if she spoke now she would lose control and a Roman lady never lost control.
A small voice in her head laughed. Like you did moments ago?
Cheeks burning, they reached the bottom of the stairs. Safe and out of sight of the guests Julia shrugged Damon away and nodded to Kaj who motioned the litter bearers forward. Shoulders rigid, she ignored Damon’s proffered hand, and climbed inside, felt the cushions behind her give beneath his weight. “Remove yourself,” she hissed.
“Why Julia,” Damon said in a solicitous voice, closing the curtains with a snap of his wrist. “What would your distinguished friends think if you threw me out on my ear after you left with such eagerness at your husband’s invitation?”
“Oh!” Julia swung her hand toward his cheek but bronzed fingers shot out and wrapped around her wrist. Desperate to inflict some type of damage, she wriggled into a sitting position, losing her balance as the litter was lifted from the ground. Unable to regain her equilibrium she sprawled on top of him. The shock of it delayed her reaction one instant too long. He circled her waist with strong arms trapping her fisted hands against a hard, muscled abdomen even the thick folds of his toga could not hide.
