Surrender to the Roman

by M. K. Chester

  Tertullian strolled into the barracks but offered no salute to his superior officer. “Is everything perfect for Trajan’s victorious arrival?”

  Marcus narrowed his gaze. “Did you resign your post?”

  With a show of reluctance, Tertullian straightened and offered a passable salute. “Better?”

  “Not by half. Trajan will return when we least expect him. You’d do well to stay sharp.” Marcus eyed his brother-in-law. He appealed to Tertullian’s sense of loyalty. “He needs to be reminded of who his best soldiers are.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “What brings you here so late in the day?”

  “My wife sends me.”

  Marcus chuckled, imagining his sister ordering her husband back onto the street at dusk. “And what does the lovely Drusilla require of her brother?”

  “She says—” Tertullian cleared his throat, “—that since you have not yet honored her house with your presence, that she—and by that I mean she and I—humbly accept your invitation to dine at your house tomorrow evening.”

  Marcus stopped short. “My invitation?”

  Tertullian raised his eyebrows. “You have avoided coming to visit at every turn. She’s beginning to think you don’t love her anymore. Her words.”

  He had avoided Tertullian. Marcus ran a hand over his face. A triumphal entry didn’t happen by accident. He had a sea of details to wade through. “Send my apologies, but tomorrow is not good.”

  “You’ve made my house miserable by your absence, Marcus. She wants to see you.”

  He doubted his avoidance had much to do with Tertullian’s home being unlivable. “Can you buy me a day?”

  “You’re sending me back to tell her no?”

  “It’s not ‘no.’ It’s the next day—bring her to my house then.”

  “You know what she’s like.”

  Marcus leveled a pointed glare at his second. “You know what I’m like.”

  “I do. And I from what I hear, you’re in dire need of some relief.”

  The insinuation raised the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck and delivered images of Ademeni that he’d managed to keep under lock and key most of the day. “You’re out of line.”

  “You still haven’t taken her.” Tertullian smirked and rounded the corner of the table. “Her sister has proven to be prime entertainment.”

  “You’ll do well to remember your place.”

  Backing up a step, Tertullian wiped the wolfish grin from his face. “Has she bewitched you with some foreign spell, or are you still too tired from the campaign to take your spoils?”

  Blood boiling, Marcus reined in his anger lest anyone overhear them. “I recommend you go back to your miserable home and your lovely wife.”

  “And I recommend you break your slave before she breaks you.” Face flushed, Tertullian whirled, his parting shot echoing long after he’d left.

  Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, at the end of his tether and thankfully, the end of his day. Now, he had to go home and announce guests for the next night. No one would understand his trepidation.

  Except Ademeni, who might attempt to rip out Tertullian’s beating heart with her bare hands. He might just let her.

  They could prepare for the dinner without knowing the evening’s guests. No sense in making trouble before it walked through the door.

  He gathered his things and headed into the evening. Maybe he could pry Callia from Ademeni after dinner and let her laughter soften the edges of his harsh day.

  * * *

  Ademeni stepped out of the bath and dried herself, eyes keen on the heavy woolen curtain. She hadn’t much time to prepare.

  Wrapping the rough towel around her body, she glanced at the rose-colored tunic draped across a stool in the corner of the room. She and Flora had sewn for two days under the watchful direction of Lucia.

  “What are you waiting for?” Flora’s voice burst through Ademeni’s fog from the other side of the courtyard. “Hurry!”

  Slipping the long linen stola over her head, she quickly followed with the light wool dress. The weight of the material felt like a spider web against her body. Extra fabric at the shoulders draped across her upper arms, yet she still felt uncovered, especially without the headscarf all unmarried women wore in Dacia.

  She would give these things up for a time on the hope of reversing her fortune.

  “Flora!” She stuck her face outside the curtain and spotted the slave lighting the sconces.

  Lucia turned the corner. “What is it?”

  “Is this right?” Ademeni asked, revealing herself for inspection. “Well?”

  The graying woman smiled. “Wait here, child.”

  The curtain dropped, and Ademeni tested her patience. Just as she was about to venture out, Lucia returned with two large, shell-encrusted pins. “These bunch your sleeves. Like so, see?”

  Unexpected tears scorched Ademeni’s eyes. She and Lilah had used to dress and groom one another. She’d hated the useless preening. Now, she missed the moments of companionship she’d taken for granted. Putting away the last visible vestiges of Dacia did little to ease her anxiety.

  Lucia paused at the show of emotion. Then Flora appeared, one eyebrow arched in appraisal. “You don’t need a belt. Your waist is small enough.”

  The iron bell at the front of the house clanged. Ademeni started, hating each night more than the last.

  “No time to wait,” Flora coached. “Take the bowl.”

  The clipped instructions sounded easy enough. Ademeni had paid attention to their training, and her skills had improved enough to let her go unnoticed.

  A man’s flinty greeting echoed off the atrium walls. She froze, the bowl heavy as lead in her hands. She could never forget that awful voice.

  Tertullian, among others, had arrived with much fanfare.

  No wonder Marcus had been so vague about his guests when Flora had inquired. He’d been worried about what Ademeni might do if she had time to plan. And rightly so.

  Rage built a protective ring of fire around her heart, blinding her to the possible dangers of lashing out. A deep breath provided an eerie calm that steadied her steps and chased the tremble from her hands as she met the guests near the edge of the courtyard.

  Couches had been brought out into the purple-streaked evening. She averted her eyes as each guest, six in all, washed their hands in a silver bowl, then reclined into their seats.

  From their sandals, Ademeni deduced they were an uneven mix of men and women—four men, all from the legion, and the wives of two, she guessed. Stepping into the shadows, she set the bowl aside and glanced around the courtyard for Flora’s direction.

  The older woman stood near the doorway, beside Tertullian, engaged in quiet conversation, as if they knew each other well. With a quick nod, he gestured toward a figure lingering behind.

  Ademeni’s gaze landed on a young woman dressed in an extravagant red tunic, head bowed, as she stepped into the light. Stacks of copper bracelets jangled on her wrists, and the cut of her clothing seemed indecent, open along the sleeve and again at the waist.

  As Ademeni met Tertullian’s eyes, the woman behind him raised her painted face as well.

  Ademeni gasped. Lilah.

  A wicked smile played at the corners of Tertullian’s mouth as he spoke to Flora. What kind of monster paraded his depravity in front of family?

  “There you are, dear brother.” Feminine laughter broke the tension. Greetings went up from the guests as Marcus made his entrance.

  Dressed in a short, loosely belted white tunic, he took a slow turn around the pool to greet each of his visitors, starting with his sister.

  Drusilla’s beauty stood out among the guests. Long, henna-dyed hair twisted back from an open, oval face. Familiar green eyes sparkled as she smiled, accenting a set of deep dimples in her rouged cheeks.

  When Marcus pressed an affectionate kiss against Drusilla’s upturned face, an unbidden flush washed over Ademeni. Her skin ti
ngled, and she averted her eyes, focusing instead on her own sister.

  “You look rested, you old war dog.” Tertullian embraced Marcus. “Orders arrived after you left the barracks. I thought you might need to see after some business.”

  A packet of papers passed between them, but Marcus only nodded and put them away.

  Fresh dread washed over Ademeni. Marcus would make war again, either because he enjoyed such things or because his loyalty lay with the mad emperor, Trajan. Conquest never ended.

  One look at her miserable sister told her so.

  Sparing a glance toward the kitchen, she forced herself to her duties, her knees unsteady, her hands trembling.

  “Take her with you.” Tertullian’s command stopped Ademeni midstride. “I brought your sister to assist you, Princess.”

  Vile words balanced on the tip of her tongue. Before she could hurl them, Marcus, stepped between her and his brother-in-law.

  Face ashen, his brows drew together, as if he’d read the vengeance etched on her heart. But when he blinked, she glimpsed something more, a pain in his eyes she couldn’t decipher.

  Erring on the side of caution, she withdrew her attack on his guest. For now.

  “Come.” She motioned to Lilah and stalked to the kitchen without waiting to see if she followed.

  Once removed from the gathering, Ademeni turned her wrath on Lilah, heedless of the others working around them. “Wipe your face. You look like a whore.”

  Lilah’s kohl-lined eyes widened and filled with tears. Ademeni cringed at the strength of her disdain for her younger sister. Lilah had never been strong enough to stand on her own, had always bent to the will of others.

  An easy target for Tertullian.

  “I don’t mean the things I say.” Cursing her temper, Ademeni hurried to embrace Lilah. She had missed her sister only moments ago. “I’ve taken my frustration out on you.”

  Lilah, who had once been the most haughty of the king’s daughters, clung to Ademeni as if to a piece of driftwood in the middle of a storm-lashed ocean.

  “He’s awful,” she moaned. “He takes pleasure in my tears.”

  Ademeni dried her sister’s cheeks, a swell of compassion overcoming anger. “Why did he bring you?”

  “To taunt you,” she said. “They fought about it, he and his wife. She hates me.”

  “Why does she hate you?”

  Lilah’s face turned white, her whisper harsh. “Surely your master requires the same things of you that mine requires of me.”

  Ademeni’s stomach turned, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She saw no reason to tell her sister that Marcus had not yet forced any such indignities upon her.

  When she opened her eyes, Flora motioned to her, a scowl set across her broad face. The short time for reacquaintance had ended. Duty called.

  Steering Lilah onto a stool beside the warm oven, she instructed her sister to wait until summoned. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. When no one was looking, she wrapped a skewer into the loose fabric of her dress.

  Surely the gods would provide a convenient time to kill the man who had killed her brother and her father, and now tortured her sister.

  She hoped they would be expedient.

  Chapter Six

  Marcus couldn’t tear his eyes from Ademeni. She darted from shadow to shadow. Beneath a Roman-style dress, her form took on new life, doubtless enhanced by his first taste of wine in several days.

  He resented having her visible to anyone else, sharing her with his company in this capacity. In any capacity.

  Nonsense. He tried to clear his head. But those pins made out of seashells…where had they come from? Years ago, hadn’t he’d seen something similar on his wife? He blinked. They looked like they belonged on Ademeni. He should be upset, but curiosity prodded his mind instead.

  Over the mundane conversation, he peered at Lucia, drowsing on the couch to his right, then at Flora, waiting near the kitchen. Which one of them had helped Ademeni dress tonight?

  A gentle breeze swirled in the courtyard, running flickering fingers through blazing wall sconces. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with either woman, yet one or the other had taken a risk by giving her Julia’s pins.

  Lucia smiled, speaking to Drusilla about a textile vendor at the market. She didn’t look the least bit guilty, but Flora wouldn’t have dared to give Ademeni any of his wife’s belongings. She wouldn’t have thought her worthy. His deductions pointed a strong finger at Lucia.

  “You’re a thousand mille away, Marcus,” Tertullian prodded him. “Have we overstayed our welcome?”

  Drusilla turned and inspected her brother while cuddling a sleepy Callia. He smiled, enjoying her company. “I’m fine, I assure you. It feels strange to be home.”

  “You’ve been away far too long,” she said.

  “Your grounds could use some work.” Tertullian grinned, raising his cup in salute. “But I haven’t told you the latest, my friend. The bulk of the army is on its way home. They struck out from Dacia this morning.”

  Distrusting the glint in his brother-in-law’s eye, Marcus hedged his answer. “This is good news.”

  “Word came after you left that Trajan will reinstate the games.”

  “Really?” Gladiatorial games had never captured Marcus’s attention the way combat had, yet the pull of spectacle was hard to deny and very popular with the masses.

  “One hundred days, that’s the rumor.” Tertullian reached for more fruit. “And that’s not the best part.”

  Dread coiled in Marcus’s gut. The way emperors celebrated often made his duties more difficult. Returning armies could be unruly. “What’s that?”

  “He’s bringing one hundred thousand male slaves from Dacia.”

  The huge number caught in his throat. It seemed excessive, even after such an important victory. “For what purpose?”

  Even as Marcus asked the question, he understood the significance of a public display. Dacia had been an enemy across some time. To take so many men from the province meant that Trajan wanted immediate colonization and subservience.

  “For the games,” Tertullian said. “He’s granting land to soldiers already, and he’s looking for an architect to build a monument in the middle of Rome.”

  “Of course.” Marcus lay back against a pillow. This shouldn’t bother him. Trajan wouldn’t be the first Roman emperor to host games, capture slaves or immortalize himself with stone. He brushed his annoyance aside. “It’s a great accomplishment.”

  “He’s shown his opponents that he belongs on the imperial throne,” Drusilla interjected, her voice full of excitement. “And they said that installing a military man wouldn’t be in the best interests of Rome, that Nerva was one of a kind.”

  True enough, maneuvering the empire away from imperial bloodlines had been a calculated risk. As Emperor, Nerva had produced no heir and adopted Trajan to become his successor.

  “When will they arrive?” Marcus asked.

  “Before the next new moon. But forget all this political nonsense.” Tertullian leaned forward and snapped his fingers. “Would you enjoy some entertainment? The girl dances beautifully.”

  The young Dacian woman appeared as if by divination, head bowed, too much of her body visible even in the shadows. Beside her husband, Drusilla tightened her posture and looked into the water as if something more interesting might happen there.

  “She’s quite good.” Tertullian sneered, running his hand over her hip. “Very flexible.”

  “No doubt,” Marcus mumbled. And far too young for the purpose. This could not happen tonight, should not happen ever. “Not tonight. I’m going to rest while I can afford to. I’m afraid I must call an end to the evening.”

  Tertullian’s face reddened, but he held his tongue. A mask of calm understanding slid over his rage. “You work too hard, even here.”

  While Tertullian’s hand never left the girl’s thigh, his eyes targeted Ademeni, on the other side of the room. They glared at each ot
her as if about to meet in combat.

  A silver object flashed in her hand. Marcus edged to his feet.

  Her fingers curled into a fist, holding something in the swaying folds of her dress. Marcus blinked away the haze of wine. She’d moved close enough to Tertullian to make a solid attempt on his life.

  “Perhaps you should stay home for a few days and refresh yourself,” Tertullian continued, unaware of the danger that approached.

  Marcus rose to defend his guest, but could not let the subtle insult slide by. “Drusilla seems tired as well. See to your duty and take your wife home.”

  “Yes,” Drusilla agreed with a nervous laugh. “It has been a busy day, and we have taxed you too long already.”

  “There will be other occasions,” he muttered, his attention split between getting his guests out of the house and thwarting an attack on an unsuspecting, if deserving, soldier.

  Marcus stepped into Ademeni’s line of sight as she drifted ever nearer. She sidestepped him, but he reacted with just as much speed. He captured her hand on the upswing and wrenched a sharp kitchen implement from her fist. Her eyes flashed with surprise then darkened to fury.

  He tightened his grip on her arm, not surprised at the strength her hatred gave her. He dared not let her loose.

  Tertullian leaped to his feet and shouldered up behind him. “What’s going on?”

  Unable to break from Ademeni’s gaze, Marcus hid the makeshift weapon against his body. “Nothing.”

  Drusilla stared, eyes wide, and he wondered if she understood how close her husband had come to serious injury. Understood that Tertullian might have deserved this servant’s wrath.

  Taking a deep breath, Marcus turned to them with as much of a smile as he could muster. “The night has ended, and we will not be strangers—we are family, after all.”

  Lucia hurried the last of the guests from the house, barring and locking the door under his watchful eye. He breathed a sigh of relief and released Ademeni, no tangible damage done.

  She whirled, snatched up Callia and excused herself. “The child is exhausted.”

  Gone with Tertullian were the feelings of hostility that had filled the space moments ago. Family or not, Marcus needed to rethink their relationship. The man seemed more menacing with each encounter, and now inside Rome, much of his behavior fell outside Marcus’s control.