Surrender to the Roman

by M. K. Chester

  No, she would be gone by now, somewhere outside the city, on the North Road, leaving her short, forced stay in this stinking city behind. His heart ached, yet no other decision made sense. He could no longer force her to stay, no matter what decision Trajan rendered in the morning.

  As he closed his eyes, he wished her only a speedy, safe journey to whatever destination she sought.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ademeni laid her hand upon the creaky gate and stole into the house through the back entry. No light drew her from the inside, and fear stuck close as a shadow. She held her breath, and when no one responded to the sharp noise, she realized that the house had been cold and empty for many hours.

  But the guards still stalked the perimeter and their presence spurred her to action. Unable to light any flame, Ademeni felt her way through the house. She scolded herself for coming here, yet when Marcus did not appear at the games by day’s end, she wondered if he might have been released.

  Foolish and hopeful, she caught the scent of him in the hallways, his profile in the shadows. Her heart ached for him as it had for no other. She would have gone nowhere else.

  She bit back a rush of tears and wiped her palms on her toga. With soldiers stationed outside, staying here was dangerous, no matter that she felt closer to Marcus.

  After slipping outside once again, she found herself alone under the pale light of a half moon, fearing both abandonment and capture. She clutched her freedman’s papers in one hand and navigated around the detachment of soldiers, now camped at the side of the property under a grove of olive trees.

  Her feet took her toward the home of Tertullian and Drusilla. If Marcus had not been released, perhaps that monster was being held overnight as well. After all, Drusilla and Lucia had gone to speak to Trajan about this matter. Would those women be permitted to return to their homes, or be held as well?

  Finding out became her only option. She had to know if any news came from their effort on Marcus’s behalf. She stayed to the shadows on the street, not wanting any kind of attention. Though it was late, several homes along the way were well lit and full of revelers, who spilled into the street as they guzzled too much wine.

  Weaving through the unexpected activity, Ademeni didn’t have time to notice whether additional soldiers surrounded Tertullian’s home. Soft firelight glowed from inside, and she edged into the garden on aching feet to see if anyone was inside.

  For a long moment, she heard no voices. Her heart sank. She had nowhere else to go, no safe place to rest for the night. Her sister would be far outside the city by now, impossible to find even in the light of day.

  The sound of hushed voices stilled her frantic thoughts. Hurried footsteps scraped the stones inside, and soon Ademeni heard conversation.

  “What if we did more harm than good?”

  “Trajan is wise. The gods will guide him to the right answers.”

  “At least Tertullian is detained tonight. If only I could have a peaceful night’s rest.”

  Ademeni need hear no more. She recognized the voices as Drusilla and Lucia and boldly entered the house. The gate shut behind her with a thud.

  The women fell silent. Drusilla stepped forward.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded. “Show yourself.”

  Ademeni stepped toward the light.

  Lucia gasped. “Ademeni! We thought you and your sister would be gone by now. You look like a street dog.”

  Drusilla rushed forward and took Ademeni by the arm. Her touch released Ademeni’s tension, and she became all at once hungry, fearful and exhausted. Tears sprang to her eyes and she trembled as they led her to a bench near a flickering fire.

  “What have you heard?” she asked, gaze darting between women. Their concerned expressions did not salve her mind.

  Lucia sat beside Ademeni while Drusilla went to the kitchen. “You need bread and wine.”

  “Lucia, tell me the truth of what you know,” Ademeni urged.

  The matriarch took a deep breath, as if using the extra time to form a more cheerful answer. “We both had audience with Trajan tonight. We told him all we knew and answered his many questions. He told us that he had already spoken to Marcus, and that he is well at this time.”

  Drusilla returned, and Ademeni took the bread she offered. “When will he reach a decision?”

  “In the morning.” Drusilla dropped to her knees and stared into the fire. “This is going to be a very long night.”

  For them all. Ademeni wondered at Drusilla’s decision to betray her husband in order to save her brother. If Trajan came down on Tertullian’s side, she would be a ruined woman. Lucia had less to lose, as kin to Trajan, but when Ademeni thought of Callia’s fate, she worried for the sweet child. In her experience, progeny of perceived threats did not live long lives.

  So Drusilla lost either a husband or a brother, and Lucia could lose a son and grandchild. Perhaps Ademeni had less to lose than either of them.

  It didn’t feel that way. Each passing moment pierced her heart further. Every wandering thought led to renewed concern about the fate of one man: Marcus Decimas Cordovis.

  And thus they sat through the night, each keeping private council until the sun rose on the day where Trajan would answer all questions.

  * * *

  Marcus jerked awake, the remnant of a dream raising his fist as if to strike a blow. His bleary gaze met the harsh rays of a white-hot sunrise, the promise of a torrid day ahead.

  Pushing himself from the pallet on which he’d finally slept, realization pumped through his heart and resonated in his head.

  He hadn’t meant to sleep. And if he slept, he’d wished to dream of Ademeni. Of being a family with her as wife, with Callia and of more children to follow.

  He rubbed his hands over his face and head, glancing again at the horizon. The aroma of fresh bread mingled with the shouts of vendors and told him the day had begun in earnest. It would not be long now, and nothing he could do would stop what was about to happen.

  Across the room, the door swung open, a different soldier filling the doorway with his impressive stature and costuming. Marcus grimaced. He could kill this man if forced, but he wouldn’t get far on his own.

  The guard placed fresh clothing on a bench, followed by Marcus’s finest armor—but not his sword. Without a word of instruction, the man exited, leaving Marcus to a stinging swarm of his own thoughts.

  Of course. He should be dressed in his finest when facing the emperor for perhaps the final time. He could not know Trajan’s mind. He could do anything, and Marcus needed to consider the possibilities one by one.

  Would the verdict be private, or public, in the arena? If public, the whole of Rome would learn of these accusations, and Trajan might allow the mob to sway his decision.

  Marcus pictured the scene in his head. Trajan putting life or death to a vote, with the loudest contingency choosing the survivor.

  Or he might choose to throw them into battle against one another. He’d be forced to kill his sister’s husband in front of the mob.

  And what if Trajan came to a decision and the unfortunate loser were sentenced to die? Would that happen in the arena? At the hands of an executioner, a skilled gladiator or some exotic species of animal?

  At least, if it came to his death, he could enter the afterlife knowing he had wronged no one. That he had lived and loved well. Perhaps too well, if that be his downfall. If the gods would not forgive him for Ademeni’s fate, he would gladly carry that burden into eternity.

  Anything could happen. He had to be prepared, alert, ready. His mind ticked across every possible scenario as he dressed, envisioning Ademeni in the stands, Lucia and Drusilla, all those he loved watching his fate revealed.

  He stretched his limbs, as he would on the morning of battle, preparing for any and all eventualities before donning and securing his armor.

  Naked of weapons, he stood before the door. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, a prayer on his lips.

  �
�May the gods protect me and steady my hand for battle. May the gods protect the ones I love in the event of my death. May they be loved and cared for until we meet again.”

  Marcus opened his eyes, raised his fist and pounded on the door. He was ready.

  * * *

  Ademeni held her breath as Trajan entered his box at the Circus Maximus to trumpet call. Dressed in purple and gold, he waved like a child who had done no real thing to impress his parents. The crowd rose as one and cheered, bloodthirsty for another long day of games.

  If not for Marcus, she would not be here. She would not be in Rome at all, and certainly not with a maniacal throng surrounding her, intent on scenes of death.

  Death. The word snagged in her mind no matter how she tried to push it away. Despite the early heat of the day, she broke into a cold sweat.

  No one stood near her, or rather, she stood apart. She’d left Lucia and Drusilla asleep when the first rays of dawn showed in the sky. Her presence with them at the games had the potential to affect events.

  Regardless, she would not have been able to bear standing beside Drusilla no matter which way the decision went. She had no love for Tertullian but held no ill will for Drusilla, also a victim of her husband.

  As the crowd settled around her, Ademeni kept on her feet, neck craning, anxious for any news. Whispers had greeted her on the street. The names of Tertullian and Marcus Cordovis attached to rumors spread up and down the market as if they were afire.

  Some said the decision had already been made and only the punishment remained. Others said the Dacians had actually revolted in the jails last night, proving Tertullian’s story true. And still others did not believe Trajan would ever turn against Marcus, the man who had wed his cousin and given him victory long before Tertullian came into the ranks.

  But none had laid eyes on either man, and now, as all attention rested on the emperor’s every move, the arena stilled as he raised his hand for silence.

  An orator stepped to the precipice to speak for Trajan. “The most excellent Trajan favors your company this fine day to lay to rest a dispute of the highest order.”

  The arena erupted in cheers that shook the foundations while a nausea swept over Ademeni. She clutched the stone barrier for support.

  “Into the arena come two brave warriors of great acclaim.” The orator paused and directed their attention to a gate at the western wall with a dramatic sweep of his hand.

  At this signal, the gate was pulled upward, pulleys squeaking in protest. Tertullian strode into the arena, escorted by two black-clad guards. He wore the same battle vestments she’d noted the first time she’d seen him in Dacia. The only thing missing was his weapon.

  Both cheers and hisses emanated from those gathered. Ademeni could still feel the malice in his cold touch as he’d accosted her not so many nights ago.

  “The brave Tertullian of Trajan’s mighty Dacian conquerors and—” he swung his arm wide in the opposite direction, “—Caesar’s brave general, Marcus Decimas Cordovis.”

  Her heart lodged in her throat as another gate drew upward. More handsome than ever, Marcus stalked like a bull from the chute into the dust of the arena floor. His grim expression twisted her hope. His armor and crimson robe had been freshly cleaned for this event, but she knew by the growth of his beard and his pale complexion that he had not been showered with Trajan’s goodwill.

  His eyes did not search the crowd for her, and after he addressed Tertullian with a menacing glare, he turned his attention to Trajan and lifted his chin in a show of defiance.

  * * *

  Marcus filled his lungs with the air of the arena, biting, rancid even in the early part of the day. Blood mingled with sand. His senses tingled and his limbs tensed, ready to move if called upon. He’d been given no words of direction, only thrust into this pandemonium to survive on his wits.

  Which is what fate usually handed him. He’d been prepared for none of this life, a simple foot soldier with a mind for strategy. Even his marriage had been a surprise. But he’d maneuvered quickly enough until now.

  He cast a wary glance at his once-trusted second, and then spit into the sand. Tertullian looked as though he’d been on campaign. His haggard face showed every line, his beard longer than regulation allowed.

  Perhaps his guilt kept him awake and restless.

  Tertullian curled his lip. “Now all of Rome will see what a devious slave does to her master.”

  Marcus grinned without humor. “Or what ambition does to fools.”

  Tertullian lunged forward only to be caught by the shoulders, his guards holding fast. A fearful gasp arose from the perimeter of the arena.

  Marcus’s scalp prickled. Just let that imbecile break loose. Marcus would kill him with his bare hands. He turned his attention from his enemy to his emperor. Trajan leaned against the front of his box, as entranced as any of the spectators.

  A jolt of fear shot through Marcus. What if this wasn’t about justice, but entertainment? Which would please the masses more—Tertullian’s death, or his?

  Marcus caught Trajan’s eye, and the emperor stiffened, adjusted his voluminous robes and stepped back. After a long, frozen moment, he raised his hands and silenced the crowd.

  “Romans, hear my verdict!” The sound of the emperor’s booming voice hushed his audience. A smile flickered across his lips before he continued. “Before you stands an enemy of the state, a rogue and a liar, unfit for service to even the lowest of you.”

  Those in attendance voiced their displeasure.

  “Before you stands Marcus Decimas Cordovis, hero of Dacia, accused by his First Spear, Tertullian Octavius Lucilius, of inciting rebellion in the Dacian captives to rise from their chains and take murderous rage to the streets of Rome.”

  Shock and anger rippled through the stadium. Marcus held to his stoicism. At least Trajan had not mentioned Marcus’s personal relationship with his Dacian captive.

  Trajan silenced the crowd again. “But we have discovered something dark at the heart of the matter. The noble Tertullian has let his ambition blind him and creates a fragile web of fiction in order to further his own career.”

  Marcus released a held breath and closed his eyes, a rush of hot tears signaling his relief. Trajan had discerned the truth after all. Opening his eyes, he bowed before his emperor, grateful for his life.

  Trajan continued, “Using all means at his disposal, the cur Tertullian has now earned the ire of his emperor. He is hereby stripped of his rank and title of privilege, and sentenced to death this very moment in the arena.”

  In a blur, Praetorians appeared at Marcus’s side to escort him from the floor of the Circus Maximus as the crowd exploded. A glance at Tertullian’s face said everything. Eyes wide, mouth open, he saw his future, and the moments did not last long.

  As Marcus exited the arena, cheers followed him, whether for him or for Tertullian’s fate, he did not know. Nor did he care. He had his life, his freedom and his position at the head of his legion.

  He skidded to a halt. He returned to the mouth of the tunnel which led into the arena.

  Ademeni. His life would be worth nothing without her by his side. He dared not hope that she remained in Rome, that she would forfeit her family and homeland to see whether he lived or died.

  “…a soldier’s death by the sword!”

  Trajan’s verdict for Tertullian reverberated in Marcus’s ears, as did the frenzied bloodlust that followed. Tertullian’s gaze met his, and Marcus looked away. The desire to see this man—his confidant and sister’s husband—killed did not fall on him.

  But he bore witness all the same.

  Bitterness flooded the back of his throat. He’d seen enough death to last a lifetime. Retreating from the arena, he offered a silent prayer to the gods. If you bring her back to me, there will be no more blood.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ademeni clutched the stone column, relief and the crush of the crowd threatening to wash her to the floor of the arena in a roilin
g flood of humanity.

  Horrible words flew from the crowd like arrows.

  “Murderer!”

  “Liar!”

  “Kill him!”

  Plunged into the emotion that swirled about her, Ademeni could no longer see Marcus with her own eyes. Where had they taken him now?

  She pushed through the mass of bodies only to be shoved first one direction, then another. Clawing her way down the stairs, she darted through an opening in the throng and slipped out through the same gate she’d entered.

  In the street, she fared no better. The verdict seemed to have infected the city with a fever of madness. Not even the red-robed soldiers held any semblance of order, instead using their weapons and power to take food and trinkets from others at will. Vendors hastened to pack up their goods and women and children sought safety behind barred doors.

  As she scurried from shadow to shadow, Ademeni was amazed that the debate between Marcus and Tertullian had sparked all this frenzy. Day had turned to night.

  Any excuse for revelry. How quickly she’d forgotten.

  Pushed to the margins of the road, she surged through openings in the crowd, ducked away from a drunken man’s reach and skirted around a knot of soldiers arguing their loyalties while the streets rioted around them.

  Ademeni paid them only passing attention, as she moved too fast for anyone to follow or grab on to. Her heart pounded only for Marcus, only to reach home, for it was now her home as well—a fact she had been loath to admit not so long ago.

  She had given up everything for this man, and nothing would keep her from him now. She had come to know these streets so well that she reached the residential lane in quick order. Only then did she slow her pace and consider her deportment.

  She felt as though she’d been dragged down the road; no doubt she looked it as well. The curious glances she received confirmed that either her appearance had suffered greatly, or that they knew about Marcus and the verdict. After all, these were his neighbors.