Sword of Rome

by Constance O'Banyon

  As a Badarian princess, Lady Larania should have attended the festivities honoring her son, but she had declined so Danaë could take her rightful place at Ramtat’s side and be recognized as the new princess of the Badari.

  Adhaniá now saw that her heedless actions reverberated throughout the family. She was not the only one who would suffer because of her willfulness.

  She was in a hopeless situation.

  Her eyes met and caught the Roman’s, and she looked away. She wished she was able to talk to him. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him about Rome.

  She felt his presence at all times, and more and more, her gaze sought his.

  The last evening onboard, Adhaniá could not sleep. She quietly dressed and left her cramped cabin. The boat was anchored near shore for the night, and it was hot and miserable. Even netting had not discouraged the swarming gnats from pestering Adhaniá. When she stepped on deck, she found Heikki had already sought his bedroll, and the captain of the ship acknowledged her with a nod but did not speak.

  She sighed, standing at the railing, wishing herself back in the desert.

  “A magnificent night,” a clipped Roman voice said from the shadows near the bow.

  A thrill went through her at the sound of the Roman’s voice. Adhaniá knew she should go immediately to her cabin, but she foolishly lingered so she could talk to him. “Aye,” she agreed. “Or it would be but for the swarm of gnats.”

  He came closer to her. “I am amazed at how well you speak Latin.”

  She felt him beside her and took a deep breath. “I had a worthy teacher.”

  “I will be saying good-bye to you tomorrow. I understand we will dock in Alexandria before nightfall.”

  His voice was deep, and it struck a cord within her. “That is what I am told as well.”

  She felt his nearness, and for some reason she could not understand, she wanted to touch him. That impression made her tremble inside. The thought of never seeing him again caused a sharp ache in her heart. “You are a tribune, Apollodorus tells me.” She had not dared ask much about the Roman, not wanting to appear too interested in him.

  “Aye.”

  “Then will you soon be off to war? That is what Roman tribunes do, is it not?”

  His burst of laughter awoke something deep inside her—heat that flowed through her body—a yearning she did not understand.

  “Nay. I will not be off to war.”

  She was hanging onto her composure by a mere thread. “What does a tribune do when he is not warring with his neighbors?”

  “This tribune builds bridges, libraries, cities or whatever Caesar bids me build.”

  She digested that bit of information, then dared to speak of what was troubling her. “I don’t suppose we will see each other after tomorrow.”

  His voice deepened even more when he glanced down into her eyes. “I don’t think I will be invited to meet with your queen.”

  It hurt to think this was the last time she would ever see him. “I suppose not.”

  “So you will drift out of my life without my ever having seen your face,” he said, his breath stirring the curl that had escaped her veil.

  “My face is nothing that you would remember if you had seen me.”

  His raised eyebrow challenged her assertion. “I wonder if you might give me a parting gift—a remembrance?”

  Her heart thundered inside her. He wanted to remember her? “If I can.”

  He daringly reached out and touched her veil. “I would like to have this.”

  She hesitated for only a moment before she unwrapped it, slid it off the lower part of her face and held it out to him. Their fingers brushed as he took it from her, and she wanted to wrap her hand around his, to hold on to him and to hold back tomorrow. “You will look funny wearing it,” she managed to say, smiling.

  For a long moment Marcellus was wordless. Soft moonlight illuminated the most unforgettable face he’d ever seen. His gaze swept across features that seemed to have been fashioned by the gods to please a man. She had not the soft beauty of a Roman woman, but an exotic, unforgettable, haunting beauty that would linger in a man’s mind long after he had forgotten other women. “I shall carry your image inside me so I can remember.” He looked at her intently. “You take my breath away.”

  Adhaniá had never had a man say such things to her. She could hardly catch her breath. “So you will not give my veil to another?”

  Marcellus waved the silken cloth beneath his nose, inhaling the exotic scent. “No one will wear this—I shall keep it close to my heart to remind me of the beautiful, high-spirited young woman who once crossed my path.”

  His words thrilled her and saddened her at the same time. “And I would ask something of you,” she whispered.

  “Anything that is within my power to grant is yours.”

  She turned to fully face him, wanting so much from him but not knowing exactly what. “I would have you tell me your name.”

  He swept her a deep bow. “I am Marcellus Valerius, very much at your service.”

  She started to touch his arm but drew back. “Farewell, Tribune Marcellus Valerius, who builds libraries.”

  He daringly touched her cheek, tilting it into the moonlight. “Something I cannot explain draws me to you.”

  Her whole body was shivering, not from cold but from a strange yearning. With her heart beating wildly and her breath trapped in her throat, she turned away and fled.

  Marcellus watched Lady Adhaniá hurry away, his imagination taking him in a dangerous direction. If they had been caught together, she would have been punished. But he could not stop thinking about the softness of her skin. He could still hear the sound of her deep, throaty voice; her accent when she spoke his language was like poetry. She was more beautiful than any women he knew, and certainly no other woman could match her in horsemanship. She was as untamed as the desert from whence she came.

  His gut twisted as he thought about those intriguing dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she smiled, and the way she pursed her lips in thoughtfulness.

  He had been wise to resist the urge to kiss those dimples.

  Very wise indeed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Once the boat was tied up at the dock in Alexandria, Heikki immediately made arrangements for a litter to transport Adhaniá to her family’s villa outside the city. She glanced around the deck for Marcellus, but he was nowhere to be seen. Going down the gangplank, she watched men straining their backs loading cargo, and the sails of ships catching the wind for voyages to far-off ports.

  She searched for Marcellus among the working horde at the waterfront, and, with a sinking heart, realized he and Apollodorus must have left the boat soon after they’d docked.

  With a dull ache in her heart, she climbed into the litter Heikki had ordered, and he mounted a horse to ride alongside. Now that they were in Alexandria, Adhaniá removed her head covering and felt the damp air against her face.

  Alexandria, the marketplace of the world, was magnificent. In the distance, Adhaniá glanced at the splendor of the jewel of all cities. The turquoise color of the Mediterranean was reflected against marble temple walls. The city sprawled along miles of shoreline. The bright sunlight glancing off the white marble hurt her eyes, so she closed them and leaned back against the cushions.

  She wished she had seen Marcellus one last time. Then she pushed him out of her mind and thought of her mother. This would not be the happy reunion it usually was when she returned from the desert. Her mother would be terribly displeased with her.

  It was almost sundown when they reached the outskirts of the villa. Workers toiling in fields of golden grain paused in their work to wave and smile a welcome to her. Fruit pickers doffed their caps and bowed in her direction. Everything was dear and familiar to her.

  Once inside the house her mother walked toward her with a happy smile. Lady Larania was a woman of uncommon beauty. She was tall and statuesque, with the golden skin of one who
belonged to the Badari tribe. Her dark hair was barely dusted by gray at the temples, and it was from her that Adhaniá had inherited her dimples.

  “Daughter,” she said, touching Adhaniá’s shoulder and then pulling her into her arms. “I was not expecting you so soon. Tell me quickly, did they accept my daughter-in-law in my place?”

  “They loved Danaë, Mother, just as you said they would.”

  “Then all is well.” Larania looked puzzled. “Are the games over so soon?”

  Adhaniá lowered her head. “I have been sent away in disgrace. I am ashamed of what I have done.”

  Her mother smiled, thinking there was nothing Adhaniá could have done that would be very bad. “Tell me,” she said, leading her daughter to the couch, where they both sat. She waited expectantly, and when Adhaniá said nothing, she asked, “What have you done?”

  As Adhaniá related the two incidents, sparing herself none of the shame, she watched her mother’s face whiten with disbelief. It hurt to see shock and disappointment harden her mother’s expression.

  “Must I go to Rome?” Adhaniá pleaded, clinging to her mother’s hand. “Can you not convince Ramtat to relent—tell him how sorry I am? You have my word I’ll mend my ways and become a proper daughter and sister.”

  The mother in Larania ached for her daughter, but the Bedouin princess in her stiffened with resolve. “You know very well I cannot go against your brother. He is not only head of the family but our sheik as well. We must both abide by his decision.”

  Adhaniá lowered her head. Her mother was right. “I will obey. What I did was wrong, and I was selfish to hurt my brother in such a shameful way. I am sorry for the pain I’ve caused you both.”

  Larania drew Adhaniá into her arms. “Daughter, I know this is hard for you—it is difficult for us all. I can only imagine what strength it took for my son to send you so far away.”

  Adhaniá wanted to cry, but she knew her mother would expect her to take her punishment without complaint. “His law is just.”

  But it was so difficult, so very difficult to think of leaving Egypt.

  A swarm of needlewomen descended on the villa to make Adhaniá gowns worthy of the queen’s household. Adhaniá cared little for the silken robes, veils and dresses made of every hue in the rainbow. She barely looked at the jewels or the soft leather sandals that matched her new clothing. It mattered but little to her that her hooded cloak was made of purple silk—the purple dye being rare since it took thousands of mollusk seashells to obtain such a hue. It was said purple was banned in Rome except to those of nobility. It was an appropriate color for Adhaniá since she was a Badari princess.

  The days passed too swiftly, and the time soon arrived when she would depart for Rome.

  The last evening an intense thunderstorm struck; the force of the wind rattled the doors and shook the ground. Adhaniá stood at the window, her body trembling with an unknown dread. She watched raindrops dissolve into the dry earth, and she wept.

  Exhausted, she went to her bed and finally fell asleep.

  It was a sad occasion when Adhaniá boarded a sea-going vessel for Rome. It had been difficult to say good-bye to her mother, but she’d managed to do it without giving in to the tears that stung her eyes.

  This time instead of a small papyrus boat like the one that had transported her down the Nile, the Parnethous was a large ship with well-appointed cabins, many comforts and thirty-one other passengers, most from other lands.

  When the ship sailed within sight of Cleopatra’s marble palace, Adhaniá stood stiff and dry-eyed, watching her beloved Alexandria fade into the mist. Even the beacon from the great lighthouse on Pharus Island gave off a weak light that barely strained through the thick fog. After a while Adhaniá could see nothing but the damp, dreary fog.

  Egypt disappeared from her sight completely.

  Other passengers strolled the deck, but none approached or spoke to the mysterious woman swathed in green with the fierce-looking Bedouin guard at her side.

  Adhaniá missed talking to her best friend; Heikki had been her companion for many years, but the distance between them was widening. She could not seem to recapture what they had once shared. Sometimes she caught his gaze and realized Heikki knew it as well.

  So much had changed for her. She had left childhood behind in Egypt and was stepping into a world unknown to her.

  * * *

  The first three days were cloudy, with only an occasional glimpse of the sun. But the weather worsened when a storm struck on the fourth day. The ship rolled and heaved while waves swept across the deck, forcing the passengers to remain below to ride out the storm.

  In her cramped quarters, Adhaniá was miserable. Poor Makana was so ill she was rolling on the small bunk, moaning as if she were dying. It was Adhaniá who played handmaiden to her servant. She held the jar for Makana while she was sick and bathed her brow with cool water.

  “We are going to die!” the poor girl lamented. “We will sink, and our bodies will be washed onto some distant shore or not be found at all.”

  Adhaniá was quickly losing what little patience she had with the servant. “Nonsense. The storm will pass, and we shall reach our destination, just as we are supposed to.” In truth she was feeling a bit ill herself, but she did not mention it to the already hysterical Makana.

  On the ninth day out, Adhaniá awoke to a calm sea. With relief, she quickly dressed herself and rushed on deck, where she found many other passengers enjoying the bright sunshine. Adhaniá wore her purple cape, with the hood hiding her face, but she still drew many curious glances as the passengers speculated on her identity.

  Adhaniá chanced a glance at Heikki, who was looking ashen and uncomfortable. When she realized why, her laughter danced on the wind. “I should not find such delight in your discomfort, but I confess I do. You were ill during the storm, were you not?”

  He did not answer, just looked embarrassed.

  “You might take comfort in knowing that at times I felt a bit queasy myself.”

  When the ship groaned against a huge wave, Heikki gripped the side of the railing. “I will be happy to reach dry land,” he admitted.

  A feeling of sympathy washed over her, but she could not resist taunting him as she once had. “Poor Heikki,” she purred. “A desert dweller at sea in a storm.”

  “I didn’t take to my bed during the storm,” he remarked with force. “At all times I was guarding your door.”

  She felt a prickle of guilt. She had sworn to despise him for the rest of her life, but she could not. “I am sorry. Please sit down and rest yourself.”

  “Nay. Too many people are looking your way. It is the purple cape—they know you are a person of importance, and they might approach you if I relax my guard.”

  Her gaze traced the flight of a seabird across the blue sky, and a smile curved her lips. “No one will hear from me that you were seasick.” She met his gaze. “You have my word.”

  Heikki stood stoic, almost as still as a statue, nothing moving but his dark gaze, which fell on her face. “Many people were ill in the storm. You were one of the few who did not suffer overmuch.”

  Adhaniá leaned her elbows on the railing and rested her chin on her palms. “I suppose every Badari at the games knows of my disgrace.”

  “Like grains of sand sifting through your fingers, this will all pass into nothingness.”

  “But to be sent to Rome—banished from my beloved Egypt—is almost more than I can bear,” she said, shaking her head. “I have never had an ambition to see that warring country.”

  Later that afternoon a calm sea stretched out before them, and Adhaniá managed to persuade Makana to drink some fruit nectar, and later take small sips of ale. But the girl continued to moan and complain.

  In the evening the two stood on deck and watched the sun drop like a golden ball into the sea. Adhaniá stared at the waves that washed against the ship, her heart giving a sudden lurch because a thought hit her that she had not considered. Wit
h every passing moment, she grew ever closer to Rome and to Marcellus.

  She closed her eyes, wondering if he sometimes thought of her.

  Nay. She had just been a brief diversion, and he probably didn’t even remember her name.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marcellus walked down the Senate steps beside Marc Antony. The site where the Senate was meeting was only temporary quarters while the old building was being reconstructed.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here today, my friend,” Antony said, straightening his toga. “You have the look of a man who is about to ask a boon of me.”

  Marcellus smiled. “You are beginning to read me too well. There is something I would ask, and you have the power to grant it.”

  Antony was amused. “Ask, and I’ll decide.”

  “The sails of the ship bringing Lord Ramtat’s sister were sighted today.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  Marcellus felt a bit embarrassed, but he plunged ahead. “She sails on the Parnethous, and I’ve had a man watching for it to arrive.”

  Antony stopped in midstep. “Why would you do that?”

  “I would like to be among the escort that takes her to the villa where Queen Cleopatra resides.”

  Antony smiled, and then laughed. “Perhaps I should head the detail myself if this woman is beautiful enough to catch your attention.”

  Marcellus himself didn’t understand why he couldn’t forget Lady Adhaniá, or why he carried her veil beneath his breastplate next to his heart. He had fought against his desire for her—had even seen other women when he returned to Rome, but they had not satisfied his need. He glanced up at the afternoon sky. “If you decide to be her escort, take me with you.”

  Antony looked thoughtful for a moment. “Queen Cleopatra may have already chosen an escort for the lady.”

  “I have considered that. Caesar might be persuaded to send a Roman escort to honor her brother, who fought beside him.”

  Antony shook his head and smiled. “You have put some thought into this.”