Surrender to the Roman

by M. K. Chester

  “Either way, I am free to do as I please,” she appeased her sister. “But I must know what happens to him tomorrow.”

  Another long pause blanketed the room while Ademeni waited for Lilah’s answer. One day, nothing more.

  “I will stay with you, but I promise nothing.”

  Ademeni smiled. Her sister had become stronger for her pain, more willful. “Agreed. But we must not stay in this place, no matter which way the wind blows.”

  “Then where?” Lilah asked.

  Ademeni had but one answer. “Into Rome.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marcus paced the length of Trajan’s antechamber at the Circus Maximus under the watchful eye of a young member of the Praetorian Guard. Every few moments, a cheer rose from the crowd that had flooded the stadium at dawn for the opening of the day’s games.

  The noise buffeted his thoughts. Soon, he might find himself center-stage, the focus of spectacle.

  And where was his accuser at this moment? Did he wait in another room much like this? Did he feel confident that the gods would bless his deceit? Or did his breath become shallow and his hands clammy? How far back did Tertullian’s treachery reach?

  Marcus wished for a weapon. He’d protected this bastard. Too many times to count, he’d allowed Tertullian to hide in his long shadow, or bask in his glory.

  He now felt certain he’d been played all along. Even the marriage to Drusilla seemed contrived in light of recent events. They’d had no children, for which his sister took the blame, yet if she was an expendable asset, children would only hinder Tertullian’s upward movement.

  Such speculation left a bitter taste in his mouth. At the next cheer from the crowd, Marcus paused and stared through the only small opening in the room.

  He grimaced at the scene. Rome had become unrecognizable. As a boy, he’d learned about the nobleness of Rome, had been shaped for service in his lessons. The history of strong, fearless leaders fueled his desire to become like them.

  But he did not like what his eyes beheld. A different side of history. The story of a people who had built an empire on the backs of others. Men who had turned on one another to gain power—only to do nothing good with that power. Did the deeds of a few good men truly extinguish the stench of the useless?

  The crowd roared as Trajan entered the stadium and took his seat. He looked different to Marcus. More human and weak. Only the gods knew if he was smart enough to see through lies to the true threat in his army.

  Trajan offered a few choice words, waved his hands and declared the games open. The trumpet blasted and the mob surged in their seats. Marcus’s stomach lurched. The clamor about gladiatorial games had never interested Marcus, but these one hundred days of death and dismemberment actually repelled him.

  Marcus forced the tension from his posture as he turned from the window. No amount of worry could make time pass more quickly or change the slant of fate. Hours would pass before he gained an audience with the emperor. He didn’t want to spend those moments focused on things over which he had no control.

  Instead, he thought of Callia, recalled her contagious laughter as she would run through the house. If this storm passed by, he would see that his daughter was well schooled. He would see that his days away from his family were few. He’d already missed too much.

  Next, he thought of Ademeni, how she’d made her mark on him from the first, and how deep that mark had cut. How ironic that she would be both the tool to bring him to this moment of judgment, and his inspiration for seeing his way clear of this trial.

  He had to return to her. He needed her in his life, in Callia’s life. The gods had forced his hand to let her go, but he would have freed her regardless. To cage a spirit such as hers did a disservice to the world.

  Finding his way to the uncomfortable bench that served as both chair and bed, Marcus sat and readied for the long wait. A smile lingered on his lips, and calm stole over his soul. No matter what happened today, he had done the right things. He had lived well, served Rome and its emperor, and fulfilled his duties to the best of his abilities. And he had loved well. If that love cost him his life, it was but a small price to pay.

  * * *

  Ademeni and Lilah, hands linked, ebbed and flowed through the snarled streets of Rome. The level of noise made conversation impossible, and the sheer number of people raised the stench to an almost unbearable level.

  As they jostled from one side of the street to the other, Ademeni paid careful attention to the landmarks. Lilah had never been allowed into the city. It would not serve them well to get lost today. They could not become separated.

  “Look.” Lilah squeezed her fingers, and Ademeni turned to see where she pointed.

  A large venue stretched before them. They’d been carried through the maze by the throng coming to the Circus Maximus. This place had been empty every time Ademeni had passed by, but now the population flowed inside like a river. The scene stole her breath. The venue had come alive, full of movement and noise and color, leaving her immobile.

  Lilah pressed against her shoulder. “Should we go inside?”

  A shiver passed over Ademeni despite the oppressive heat. Inside, her countrymen died. Surely Trajan would not make a public display of the issue between Marcus and Tertullian. But, if he did, she did not want to hide from it.

  She gave a quick nod, and the women headed for the nearest entrance. As they stepped forward, a scowling soldier barred them with his spear.

  “Women’s entrance is on the other side.”

  Averting her eyes, Ademeni dragged her sister around the perimeter of the great stadium. The flow of humanity did not cease to amaze her as they weaved through the masses and arrived at the proper entrance.

  They had no problem entering through the correct gate and were directed upward, toward the empty seats for commoners. As they climbed, a huge cheer erupted from the crowd.

  “Hail Caesar!”

  Ademeni pulled Lilah forward and they claimed two seats, nearer the top than the bottom. Ademeni took in the scene, spotted Trajan in his royal box over the main entrance and squeezed Lilah’s hand so hard that she yelped and pulled away.

  “What is it?”

  Ademeni shook her head, unable until now to grasp the full scale and might of Rome. “Our father was a brave man, but he could never have defeated an enemy with such resources.”

  Wide-eyed, Lilah nodded, and they fell silent as a large man wearing a wig and purple toga stepped forward and began to speak. The crowd fell silent, and his proclamation echoed around the enclosure.

  “We declare day five of the Dacian Games, hosted by our most gracious and prolific emperor, Trajan, to be open.”

  Ademeni gasped. Only day five of one hundred days of celebration to mark the victory in Dacia and the relegation of her people. Nausea swept over her as she realized that most of the Dacian prisoners would be sacrificed here, where she, the daughter of the slain king, sat of her own volition.

  Lilah grabbed her arm while a group of men paraded around the perimeter of the floor, tossing loaves of bread into the crowd. “Do you still want to stay where they put our people to the sword for sport?” she demanded.

  As much as Ademeni did not want to stay, she could not move or close her eyes to the spectacle that followed. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of such lopsided combat. One after another, her countrymen were pulled into the spectacle to lose their lives for the glory of Rome. Some had more fight than others, but the end result did not vary.

  Even through the frenzied bloodlust, Ademeni longed for Marcus. She scoured the crowd, her gaze finding one soldier after another only to realize that she was mistaken.

  He could explain this carnage. He could make things right just by looking into her eyes. Surely he did not approve or participate in such mindless games.

  Her frown strengthened. Tertullian did participate and had dragged Marcus into this putrid mix of dirt and blood. Even if that dog won his case, he’d be covere
d with the stench of innocent blood.

  “How long must we sit and wait?” Lilah squeezed her sister’s arm. “I knew that man’s wife and children.”

  Ademeni bit her lip. She understood the urge to flee. Her nerves sat ready to push her from the arena, but she forced herself to breathe, and to wait. If Trajan had already rendered his judgment, Marcus could be brought through the gate next. Or he could be held until the end of the day for maximum effect.

  She turned to Lilah and pressed the bag of gold coins into her hands. “I understand if you must go. You can take all I have with you, and I will tell you the best way to leave the city.”

  Her sister’s eyes widened. “You’re not coming with me?”

  Shaking her head, Ademeni answered, “I can’t. Not yet.”

  With her countenance hardening, Lilah let loose of Ademeni. “You have forgotten who you are.”

  But Ademeni didn’t think so, and slid the dagger into Lilah’s hand. “I do not have to be in Dacia to be Dacian. If you must see for yourself that nothing remains, then go and see. But I can look around me and know there is nothing to go back to.”

  Lilah rose from her seat, anger flashing in her eyes. “At least I’m willing to try.”

  When Ademeni did not follow suit, Lilah shook her head and stepped away. “May the gods forgive you, sister.”

  Ademeni blessed her in return, through a flood of tears. “May the gods go with you. May we find one another again, in this life or the next.”

  Once decided, Lilah did not turn back. Ademeni’s heart sank. She hoped her sister had enough smarts—and gold—to reach the destination she had in mind. She followed Lilah’s shadow until it disappeared into a swarm of others.

  As she forced her attention back to the games, guilt and pride for her country battled her love for Marcus. She understood that, by the end of the day, she might well follow in her sister’s footsteps. In the event Marcus was killed, nothing in Rome could compel her to stay.

  Only one man meant anything to her future, and if she could will him to fight for his life—a life with her—she would stay to the very end.

  * * *

  “The emperor is ready to see you.”

  The clipped announcement jarred Marcus from a state of worried half-slumber. How had he fallen asleep? A glance into the stadium showed a declining sun.

  He’d been in this room all day.

  Blood rushing through his veins, he pulled himself to his feet. Straightening his uniform, he took a deep breath in an attempt to pull his scattered thoughts together.

  Nodding to his guard, he stepped forward and followed the soldier through the doorway into a narrow, darkening hallway. The smell of death, blood and sweat from the arena permeated the close quarters.

  As they edged toward Trajan’s receiving room, Marcus heard bits of conversation. From soft whispers that skittered up his spine to louder, more boisterous outbursts that seemed out of place for the business at hand.

  They stopped outside a set of ornate, gold-gilded doors. Panic produced an acidic taste in the back of his throat akin to waking the morning of a battle. Except he felt unprepared for this battle, his arguments and logic fleeing his mind when he needed to grasp them most.

  The guard hammered on the door with the hilt of his sword. Brought to attention, Marcus swallowed, clenching and opening his fists. He willed his mind to work with whatever fate handed him next.

  Gods give me a quick mind to go with the love with which they have blessed my house.

  The doors swung wide in unison, revealing a blinding gold splendor rivaled by few in the known world. Marcus saw through it to the man on the throne at the opposite end of the room.

  Just a man, not a god. He’d seen Trajan bleed, once upon a time.

  “General Marcus Decimas Cordovis.”

  The announcement of his presence gave Marcus a jolt of confidence. No matter who he might be after this meeting, for now, he was one of the best military men in the mightiest empire the world had ever known.

  As the guard backed away, Marcus got a better look at his emperor. He seemed tired. Perhaps, with the games, it had been too long a day. Trajan lifted heavy-lidded eyes and narrowed them on his once-favored general. A smile played over his lips.

  “Come.” He motioned Marcus forward with a motion of his bejeweled right hand.

  While walking the center aisle, Marcus scanned the room. Had Tertullian already been here, or was he yet to tell his side of the story? They were virtually alone—only a handful of robed advisors sat nearby.

  When Marcus reached Trajan’s throne, he knelt on one knee and lowered his head, as protocol dictated.

  After an elongated moment, Trajan said, “Rise, and face your emperor.”

  Marcus did so and found the face of Trajan to be unreadable. This did not bode well. He’d always been able to discern where he stood in moments like these. Perhaps because he’d never given Trajan any cause to doubt his loyalty.

  Marcus lifted his chin. He had given no cause for offense.

  “I have heard the case against you,” Trajan began in a soft voice, void of expression as well. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Marcus frowned. “What, exactly, is the case against me, my lord? Let the matter be clear, so I may rightly defend myself.”

  Trajan raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “There are assertions that you have become a separatist. That your loyalty to Rome has been turned.”

  “Assertions by whom? And turned by what?” he pressed.

  Trajan paused, as if these things should already be clear. “These accusations are made by your second in command, Tertullian. Is he not also married to your sister?”

  Marcus nodded, the thought now making him ill. “And why does he say I am no longer your loyal servant?”

  “He says you took a Dacian slave—a headstrong girl who was the daughter of the defeated king.”

  Again, Marcus nodded. “Tertullian himself gifted me with this slave, my lord, and took also her sister for a slave in his own house.”

  “Did he?” Trajan straightened. “And did he fall in love with his princess as well?”

  “No.” Marcus winced. “To the contrary. He seemed to rather enjoy her pain.”

  “Do you deny your feelings for this…slave?”

  “No,” Marcus answered, freed by hearing the sentiment said aloud. “Should I?”

  Trajan did not respond.

  “Tertullian has been on a short leash with me since the midpoint of the campaign. He is unwise in his decisions and acts impulsively, as my recent petition for change of rank indicates. I believe him responsible for the death of King Decebalus when we might well have captured him alive. I did not ask Tertullian to leave this woman in my house.”

  “Yet there she stays.”

  Marcus took a deep breath and counted his words. “I am not the first man to be affected by a beautiful and spirited woman, be she slave or free. I do not see how this makes me disloyal to your service. Did I not ably command the troops who stormed the last Dacian stronghold and led to the capitulation of the state? Did I not bring the spoils back to Rome for you to enjoy in the arena today, as I have done on several occasions? Did I not only days ago apprehend a Dacian man intent upon your death?”

  Trajan laughed without humor. “You need not recount your entire record of service. With such arguing, you could be a senator. But men change.”

  Marcus struggled to keep his voice from rising. “Then I must ask what has changed me? What is it that I have done to turn against you, against Rome? Who I bed does not determine when I pick up my sword. Otherwise, my wife would have kept me from Dacia altogether.”

  Trajan leaned forward, his guise darkening. “You were detained last night because unrest has been brewing in the prisons. The Dacian captives believe you will come and free them in a revolt against my authority—on the persuasion of your slave.”

  As the emperor’s face reddened, the full force of the accusation hit Marcus. He was c
harged with plotting to overthrow the sitting ruler of Rome.

  “Who says such things?”

  “Tertullian.”

  “Aside from him.”

  “Ten Dacian prisoners were brought forward, with a score of others who would give the same testimony.”

  Marcus cringed. He had not given Tertullian enough credit. “And what were these men offered in return for their lies? Freedom? A sentence less than death in the arena for your pleasure?”

  Trajan’s eyes narrowed, but he shrugged.

  “And was there any unrest in the prisons? With or without me, they are capable of rising up in rebellion. If any of this were true, I would need other trained men by my side. I could not lead a mob of unarmed, half-starved men. If my ambition ran so deep, where are those Romans conspiring with me?”

  “Did you not confer with your quartermaster, Quintas, just a fortnight ago?”

  “Yes. I was in camp. I saw several of my men. Who else should I behold inside those walls? There is no army of men waiting to assist me inside or outside of Rome—they would be obvious.”

  After a long pause, Trajan said, “You have made your defense. Your wife’s mother and your sister are waiting to speak their piece on this matter. Shall I allow women to defend such a great general?”

  What could they possibly do but beg for his life? “As this matter is ultimately about a woman, why should it matter if women speak on my behalf?”

  Trajan smiled. “Do you offer any further defense?”

  Marcus stood at attention. “I need no further defense. My emperor knows better than any my record of service and the current state of my loyalty.”

  “Then you will be detained this night pending my decision tomorrow. Guards!”

  Two black-clad Praetorians stepped forward from the back of the room to stand at Marcus’s elbows. After a sharp salute, he pivoted and marched from the room. As they returned to the suffocating holding room, he found porridge and bread.

  He prayed this meal was not a sign of things to come.

  Making himself reasonably comfortable, he wondered for the millionth time about Ademeni. He would not do anything differently from the moment she entered his house. The gift of freedom was all she’d ever wanted. He could not expect her to wait for him when he might well be killed for some manufactured act of dishonor.