by Kayse, Joan
The man only moaned.
Damon forced himself not to shout, saying in a hiss, “What did you seek from Octavian Manulus?”
The man’s lips moved. Damon put his ear closer, barely heard the man’s words. “Ledgers, scrolls. Twice written.”
Theophilus took a deep, gurgling breath then went limp in Damon’s arms.
Damon eased the man to the ground. No man should be left in the street like a dog, even if he was one but there was no time to see him properly tended. He strode down the alley. He didn’t have the exact information he needed to thwart Quintus but it was a good solid lead. He possessed all the skills necessary to locate the scrolls and a limited time to use them.
A blinding pain shot through his head, rage and despair forming only one thought before the world went black.
Julia.
*****
Julia stood beside her mother’s favorite assortment of flowers, her spine ramrod straight, her shoulders squared and her most regal expression fixed upon her face. She took comfort in the blooms that had given her mother such pleasure, a symbol of happier times. She needed to cling to those memories because she was now preparing for battle, a battle for her future. A battle for her love.
One of the kitchen boys had spotted Quintus Marcellus and a contingent of soldiers climbing the hill toward the domus. With Dorcas’ assistance she’d quickly dressed in her finest tunic and her stola, gathered at her waist with a girdle of beaten silver. She’d purposely chosen the traditional garment of a Roman matron lest Quintus forget she was a married woman.
Julia took a deep breath. Even though there were no true vows between she and Damon, to the very core of her soul she felt that they were joined and by a connection deeper and stronger than mere words.
He’d been gone for close to a week. No messages, no clue as to his whereabouts. If this had happened early on in her ruse, she would have been convinced that he’d deserted her but now? Now she trusted him and knew he would come back. He had to, for if something happened to Damon, she would cease to exist.
She would do everything in her power to see him safe. If that meant facing Quintus alone, demanding he leave them in peace, threaten to take her concerns to the Emperor, then she would do so without the least hesitation.
A forceful pounding sounded from the front entry. Julia swallowed hard. Basil had insisted he remain at his post though she had sent the rest of the household into hiding in a small, deserted temple her great-grandfather had constructed behind the domus. Accessible only by a hidden door in the garden wall, buried deep behind an overgrowth of grass and bush it was the safest place.
Aunt Sophia had been blessedly subdued and Lares had been equally loud in his protests, calming only when she reminded him it was his duty as heir to protect the people of his household. Then she had done a completely sisterly thing, and kissed him on the forehead. Her heart had clenched as she watched him take control, walking with the confidence of a man.
Walking. As Damon had taught him to do.
The pounding continued. The soldiers had her worried and for the first time in days, she was glad Damon was not present. Away from the villa he was safe, and she could face anything knowing it. She heard Basil’s mumbled greeting.
“I would see the Lady Julia.”
Julia folded her hands at her waist, willing them not to tremble. Quintus’ voice was demanding, harsh, all pretense of civility stripped away. He sounded like the murderer he was.
Quintus strode into the room. His handsome visage had taken on a twisted, demented cast, his eyes so full of hatred that Julia took an involuntary step backward.
“Julia.”
Julia inclined her head. Her name on his lips sounded like the hiss of a snake.
“Prefect,” she answered with forced calm. “The hour is late.”
“It is indeed,” he replied.
A shiver of fear swept through her at the mocking tone of his voice.
“Where is your husband?” he asked, strolling around the patio as if he were master. Julia sent a nervous glance at the handful of soldiers from the urban cohorts crowding the entry.
Julia forced her voice to remain calm. “My husband is attending to some family business. If you would care to return in the morning, I’m sure he would find time to speak with you.”
Quintus stopped his pacing, folded his arms and bent toward her, a sneer curling his lip. “Truly? Do you think he would speak with me then?”
Though she schooled her expression into a cool mask, Julia’s thoughts were racing along with her heart. Why would Quintus come to her home in the dead of night, making inquires? Was he angry at the success of Damon at the races? He’d publicly acknowledged their marriage, multiple times with every social event they’d all attended. For Quintus to raise a protest now would put him in a bad light and the Prefect of Rome never allowed that.
Cold dread erupted in her belly. “Prefect,” she said, “leave my home at once.”
Quintus stepped back. “Why Julia, that is most inhospitable of you. I’d expect better from a woman of your stature. What would your father say?” He considered that a moment, before giving a short laugh. “What would he have said? If he were alive.”
Grief crashed over Julia and she had to grip the back of the nearby couch. Quintus seemed not to have noticed.
“Why don’t we ask your husband?”
Her gaze flew to the door where two more soldiers entered dragging a struggling Damon between them. Arms bound behind him, with a short length of chain connecting to his shackled feet making walking impossible, Damon was pushed to his knees at the entry of the garden. Julia’s heart seized when he raised his head and tried to smile at her but couldn’t, his lips too cut, his jaw too swollen.
She took a step toward him but was stopped by Quintus’ outstretched arm.
“Julia. I fear you have been the victim of a cruel hoax.” He stalked over to Damon, fisted a hand in his hair and jerked his head back. “This man is not a true Roman. He’s a slave, a lowly piece of vermin masquerading as a patrician.” He circled Damon, studying him as if he were an insect. “It took longer than I’d anticipated to discover the truth. But once my men discovered that old merchant and began making—” Quintus chuckled “—inquires, we discovered this dog’s true name.” He read from a rolled parchment handed to him by a soldier. “For sale, one eleven-year-old boy. Sound teeth, quick mind and hard worker. Qualities attested to by the seller, one Felix Primax.” A cruel smile curved his lips. “His own father.”
Damon sent the Prefect a hot glare before speaking to Julia. “Too bad you found out, goddess,” he said in a nonchalant tone. “It was one of my best schemes.”
Julia gasped when Quintus struck Damon with the back of his hand. Damon took the blow, spitting out a mouthful of blood within inches of Quintus’ foot. What was he saying? “He’s lying,” she said, holding Damon’s gaze, seeing the plea behind his flint-gray eyes and choosing to ignore it. He was trying to protect her and she refused to allow him to sacrifice himself. She shifted her gaze to Quintus. “He thinks to protect me when it was my idea to claim a marriage.”
“Really? And why would that be, Julia?”
She wanted to blurt out the truth, tell Quintus she thought him repulsive, cold hearted and contemptible. Her gaze flickered to Damon, a man she could trust her heart with, a man who she loved.
“I did not wish to be forced into a marriage with someone whom I did not respect, or have the least affection for.” She narrowed her gaze and bit out, “Someone like you who does not hold the smallest amount of honor.”
Quintus’ expression turned dark. “I suggest you consider the foolishness of your views.” He jerked his head at the soldiers who pulled Damon to his feet. “Three days, Julia. Your husband will be my guest until you decide to accept me as your spouse.”
“Do not do it, Julia,” Damon said, twisting and turning his head over his shoulder. “Do not debase yourself. I love you, goddess.”
Te
ars streaming down her cheeks, she rushed toward the door only to be blocked by Quintus who sneered.
“Three days.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gods, he’d been a fool to declare his love.
Damon groaned as his feet slipped off the narrow block of stone his captors had placed him on. Arms stretched high above his head, chained to an iron bar, his battered body swung in the sour air of the prison chamber like a piece of meat in the butcher shop. His interrogators had thought it amusing to leave him perched like this while they took their supper, knowing he was in too weakened a condition to save himself from falling. Bastards.
He focused on the image of Julia that had kept him sane during the torture. For his part, he had no regrets saying it to her, no reservations at all about telling her how he felt, but not out loud. Not when it could be used as a weapon, a weapon he had handed to his enemy on a platter. Quintus would use it to full advantage to force Julia’s hand.
What an arrogant fool he was. He’d forgotten everything he’d ever learned about stealth and subterfuge and plowed headlong into a squad of Quintus’ men, totally ignoring the warning signs he was being followed. Exposed himself like a fledgling operator and played right into the Prefect’s hands.
Damon bit back a groan as the muscles in his arms began to burn, protesting their latest abuse. He was well into the third day of his incarceration in Quintus’ prison and was amazed he wasn’t yet permanently maimed or dead. The Prefect employed an elite group of torturers, men skilled in inflicting pain, and they had used most of their tactics on him. Just for the enjoyment of it—there was not one bit of information that they had tried to extract from him.
Lashings with a scourge, bound at the wrists and hung from a hook for hours, his muscles quivering, screaming for release. The worst had been when they’d laid him on a narrow block of wood, stretched his arms and legs with ropes to winches and stretched him to the point that his limbs had cracked. They’d locked him in that position and burned him with irons. He’d bit his lip until blood poured, determined not to scream but they had not been satisfied until he had, finally accomplishing the deed by rubbing salt into his scorched flesh.
None of it was as excruciating as his worry for Julia.
He clenched his jaw as his tormenters entered the chamber, laughing when they saw he had not been able to keep his footing. With a creak they lowered him to the ground. Damon’s knees would not hold him up. But they didn’t need to as two of the burliest of them dragged him across the chamber to a wooden post. Still on his knees, Damon’s arms were twisted behind the pole and chained.
From beneath half closed lids, he watched as they added coal to a brazier and began to lay an assortment of irons into the glowing embers. He closed his eyes. Gods, he didn’t know if he had enough strength left to endure it.
“How is our guest today?”
Damon raised his head and returned Quintus’ smirk with a heated glare. “Your skill as a host leaves much to be desired.”
Quintus’ lips curved into a cold smile. “I have questions for you, slave.”
Damon grimaced as his upper arms were pulled taut against the pole with leather strips to expose his torso for the coming abuse. “I thought you might. But I have no answers. I am, after all, only a slave.”
“Quite right. You are chattel. You exist only to serve your betters.” Quintus rolled one of the iron handles in the embers, pulled out a round one glowing red with heat.
Damon hissed in a breath as Quintus laid it along his ribs.
Through the red haze of pain he saw satisfaction on the Prefect’s face.
“And,” Quintus continued in a conversational tone, “it is common knowledge that a slave will only tell the truth under duress.”
Damon choked out a ragged laugh. “Patrician reason. You’d torture truth from those who will die anyway.” He narrowed his gaze on Quintus. “I know nothing of interest to you.”
Quintus lips thinned. He walked to Damon and pulled his head back by his hair so that he was forced to look at him. “What did Theophilus tell you?”
“That you were an ass.” He bit back an oath as another iron seared his chest.
“I do not play games, slave.”
Another iron. “Neither—” he answered through clenched teeth. Gods that hurt. “—do I. What is it you think I know, Prefect? What is it that has you so scared?”
His taunt earned him another iron close to his groin.
“What did Theophilus tell you?”
*****
Damon could not tell if it was night or day but he did know he was in hell.
He shifted, tried to find some way to ease the strain on his arms. Not an easy feat when they were stretched high over his head chained to iron pegs in the rock wall. He gave a short, bitter snort. What was more pain when his whole body was in agony?
Quintus and his men had spent several hours trying to wrest Theophilus’ last words from him. He smiled tightly. They’d not been successful and he’d garnered great satisfaction in the look of pure rage on the Prefect’s face before he’d passed out.
He looked around the dank cell. Finding himself here had not been a surprise. Realizing he was still alive wash. He swallowed, cringing at the rawness in his throat. Why hadn’t Quintus killed him? Oh, he harbored no illusions that the Prefect enjoyed watching him suffer. Did the man know that leaving him alone to agonize over Julia’s fate was worse than any lash or chain?
He fought against the despair threatening to engulf him. Was she safe? Was she frightened? He blew out a ragged breath. No, he decided, she wouldn’t be frightened. If he knew his goddess, she was trying to devise another scheme to see him free and that sent searing terror through him.
Gods.
He heard the bolt of the cell door lift, watched as the warped and molded wooden door scraped open. He fully expected Quintus to be standing there, gloating. The bastard had visited several times during his lessons as he termed them, taking a morbid pleasure in seeing Damon writhing in pain.
Damon held his head up, prepared to look him in the eye. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of thinking he had won. But when the door opened fully, rage and anguish tore through him.
Silhouetted against flickering torchlight was Julia. Damon drank in the sight of her, a visual inspection causing his gut to twist. She looked pale, her features pinched and drawn. Her eyes were rimmed in red, swollen and even now filling with tears. It only increased his guilt to know she had been distraught on his account. But a wave of pride tempered his grief when she stepped inside the cell, lifted that stubborn chin defiantly and wrenched her arm free from Quintus’ grasp.
Their gazes locked and the pain wracking his body flowed away as he read the love in those blue-green eyes. Oh, yes. He’d inherited his father’s fortune. To find the woman he loved more than life itself only when he was about to lose that very life.
“You see, Julia. He is not dead.”
Damon jerked his attention back to Quintus. “Get her out of here.”
“I did not bring her,” Quintus protested, with mock affront. “She showed up at the prison gates making demands.” He leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms. “I thought to send her away, but being the altruistic sort, decided it might be beneficial for her to see the manner of man she has aligned with, assist her to make the right decision.”
“Prefect, I beg one indulgence,” said Julia, her gaze unwavering as she looked at Damon. “Might I have a moment alone with my hus...the slave?”
Quintus shrugged his shoulders. “My benevolence is running high today and so I grant your request.” He stepped to the door, his face turning hard once again. “Do not linger.”
No sooner had the door closed than Julia was on her knees beside him. The cool softness of her hands skimming his bruised flesh felt like silk. Emotion choked his voice. “Julia, why did you come?”
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I had to see you, know you where all right.�
� Her voice caught. “Oh, Damon. What have they done?” She cupped his cheek in her hand. “I love you.”
How could a declaration of love be both joyous and painful but Damon felt both in his chest as she carefully kissed his mouth.
“More, woman,” he growled.
“I do not wish to hurt you.”
“It hurts worse not being able to taste you.”
She framed his face in her hands and caught his mouth in a deep kiss, pouring her love into it. He returned it, every want, every desire, every lost dream he’d ever had poured into this one last kiss.
Damon forced himself to pull away. “Julia, there is one last hope for you.”
“And you,” she insisted.
“No, love. Not for me.” He shot a quick glance to the closed door, lowered his voice. “I found the man Theophilus, the night Quintus’ men took me. He was dying, but before he did he spoke of ledgers, scrolls, twice written. I believe that is the proof your father had, records of Quintus’ embezzlement. Find those scrolls Julia. Get them to the Emperor.”
In classic goddess fashion she opened her mouth to argue.
“No. No arguing. There isn’t time.” The door swung open. He leaned against her ear. “I will love you for all time, goddess.”
Quintus’ voice dripped with venom. “It is time, Julia.”
Julia kept her gaze locked on Damon’s as she stood. “Your oath, Prefect,” she said tonelessly.
Quintus heaved an aggrieved sigh and recited in a bored voice. “I vow the slave will be set free, exiled to some distant land where he may live out his wretched life.”
“Julia, no!” Damon struggled against his chains. “You can’t take his word! You can’t believe him!”
Julia turned on her heel, pausing beside Quintus. “I ask the indulgence of one more day to see my household settled.”
Quintus raised his hand and stroked Julia’s cheek, his eyes filled with a look of twisted desire that cut through Damon like a knife. Damon sagged back against the wall.
“Of course, my love. One more day and then we will be wed.”
