Sword of Rome

by Constance O'Banyon

  Marcellus felt Adhaniá slipping away from him. The wind had shifted, and he felt the spray from the fountain on his face. He had always known he would have to let her go—he could never have her for his wife since she was not a Roman. And he couldn’t have her any other way. She was a highborn lady who could only be taken by a husband in a marriage bed.

  He stared into eyes that were the color of wild honey. He could tell by the paleness of her skin she was feeling sick. He would move the earth to help her, but he could not gainsay her brother’s command. Feeling as if a fist were tightening in his chest, he spoke to her of another matter. “I have received word from my stepfather. He has heard of the queen’s gift to me and wonders if you could entertain at his banquet tomorrow night. I have already sent him word that you will attend.”

  He watched her eyes widen, and he knew she was frightened.

  She clasped her hands. “This is what we have been waiting for.”

  “It is.”

  “So, it has begun,” she said with regret in her voice. “I will make myself ready.”

  He stepped toward her. “If it were within my power to choose, I would not have you do this. My stepfather is vile, and you must be on your guard against him at all times. Don’t trust anything he says, but keep your ears open in the service of your queen.”

  “Will not your mother be present?”

  “Nay. She never attends his banquets. As before, there will be only men to watch you dance.”

  Adhaniá shuddered. “I will give them what they want,” she said bitterly. Her hand shook when she untangled a lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek. Then she glanced up hopefully. “Will you be there?”

  “I have not been invited, and if there are conspirators present, they would not speak freely in front of me. But have no fear, you will be well protected at all times.”

  She could feel his dark gaze, and it was as if he were silently asking her something. “I will only feel safe if Heikki is with me.”

  “Of course.”

  Adhaniá suddenly remembered his warmth when he had held her in his arms. Now he appeared detached and cold.

  In truth Marcellus felt neither cold nor distant; he was trying to control his need for her. “Be on your guard against trickery when you meet Cassius. He will be suspicious of you at first. Know that he will test you in some way—be ready for anything.”

  “I will be vigilant.”

  He bowed. “Sleep well tonight, for tomorrow will be a long day for you.”

  When Adhaniá entered her chamber, her footsteps lagged with weariness. She was developing deep feelings for Marcellus, and he was the one man she must not love.

  Love?

  Surely not love.

  She had little time to consider her feelings for him because her little urchin came running toward her with Layla chasing after him.

  “She’s not going to make me get in that bath,” he cried, grabbing Adhaniá’s waist and clinging to her when Layla tried to pry his fingers loose.

  Adhaniá extracted herself from the boy’s grip and sat down on the couch, patting the cushion beside her. “Let us talk about this. You do need a bath—why do you refuse?”

  “Do I have to tell you?”

  “I wish you would. I am about to confide in you about a matter that could mean life or death for me.”

  His blue eyes grew big and round. “You are?”

  “Aye.”

  “You tell me first,” he said suspiciously.

  “Very well. Though I cannot tell you all my reasons, I must have your promise to tell no one outside this room that I speak and understand Latin.”

  Adhaniá watched him shake his head in confusion. “How could that be a matter of life or death? You’re in Rome; everybody speaks Latin.”

  “You must trust me—I am serious. Will you keep my secret?”

  Adhaniá watched him consider as if he were trying to understand why she would want to hide her knowledge. “Even if someone threatens to tear out my tongue, I will keep your secret.”

  She smiled at his dramatics. “Now, will you tell me your name?”

  He nodded slowly, almost reluctantly. “My name is part of my secret. It is Thalia, but I am called another name on the streets.”

  She frowned, not understanding. “Thalia is Greek for blooming, or perhaps … butterfly. Unless I am mistaken, it is a female name.”

  “That’s the other part of my secret. I am female.”

  Astonished, Adhaniá examined the child’s delicate features with a new understanding. “Why would you pass yourself off as a boy?”

  “ ’Tis not safe for a girl on the streets of Rome. I pretend to be a boy, and I’ve even learned to fight like one.”

  Adhaniá’s heart melted as she took the frail hand in hers. “You no longer have to hide or fight—you are safe with me, Thalia.” She stood, shoving the child toward Layla. “Go with her and she will see to your bath.” Adhaniá raised her gaze to the handmaiden. “See that my little friend is fed and properly dressed. She will sleep on the couch in my chamber tonight.”

  When Thalia came to her later, Adhaniá would not have recognized her. The child’s face had been scrubbed clean. Her features were dainty, her blue eyes almost too big for such a tiny face and she had a deep dimple in her chin. Most startling of all was the golden color of her hair.

  “You are lovely, Thalia.”

  The child held out the skirt of her blue gown and spun around, smiling. “I never thought to wear anything so fine as this. Do I get to keep it?”

  Adhaniá smiled, catching some of the little imp’s laughter. “You may indeed keep it, and you shall have more besides. I give you my word that you will never again be forced to disguise who you are. Will you trust me?”

  The child hesitated for a moment. “I have only had faith in one other person in my life, but I do believe you.”

  Adhaniá smiled and touched the pale cheek. “I will make certain you never have cause to distrust me.”

  “There is something I don’t understand.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “You are not Roman. You speak with an accent, and your skin is a different color … more golden.”

  “I am Egyptian, Thalia. Have you ever heard of Egypt?”

  “I know the queen is here in Rome.”

  “And I am of her household.”

  Thalia thought about that and nodded.

  * * *

  Night shadows passed through Adhaniá’s dreams, tugging at her mind. She tossed her head back and forth, caught in the agony of her nightmare. A sudden gust of wind caught at the tall pine tree outside her door—the branches scraped against the roof like hands grasping for her. She twisted and turned, trying to escape.

  “Marcellus,” she cried, “help me!” The sound of her own voice woke her, and she lay in the darkened room, taking deep breaths and trying to calm herself.

  Thalia came to her from her bed on the couch. “Mistress, are you ill? Has something frightened you?”

  “ ’Tis merely a bad dream. I am sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”

  Adhaniá knew she was playing a perilous game and danger walked beside her. It was a long time before she fell back to sleep.

  In a chamber across the courtyard, Marcellus had fallen asleep with architectural plans for a library he was building spread on the bed around him. The oil lamp had burned low and then gone out completely, casting the room in darkness.

  In his dream, he walked through the garden, his steps hurried. Adhaniá would be waiting for him near the fountain. When she saw him, she ran into his outstretched arms, and he held her close, his body shaking with need. His mouth found and devoured hers, and she whimpered with the same longing he was experiencing.

  Adhaniá—his Adhaniá. He would die for the touch of her body pressed against his.

  He would die if he dared touch her.

  Marcellus’s eyes snapped open, and he jerked up in bed, shaking with desire. What had Adh
aniá done to him? He ached with a longing that gave him no peace. He had to stop thinking about her.

  He slid off the bed and walked outside. Adhaniá’s chamber was just across the garden from his, and he wanted to go to her. Instead, he went back inside, relit the lantern and gathered his drawings.

  Work was the best balm for a troubled mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Heikki offered his hand to Adhaniá and helped her into the litter, but not before she caught sight of another guard who wore a hooded cloak. At first she wondered who the man might be, and why he felt the need to hide his face. Then she smiled, knowing who he was. Queen Cleopatra must have sent Apollodorus to guard her.

  Adhaniá was nervous about dancing for the Romans tonight, but having Apollodorus with her lessened her apprehension.

  The streets were dark and strangely quiet in the part of the city they passed through. Adhaniá smiled at Layla, who seemed nervous and unsettled. Waving her hand airily, she told her, “Try not to worry; we are well guarded.”

  “I know we are, mistress. But everything is so strange in Rome. Do you not find it so?”

  “I suppose I do. Tonight is certainly out of the ordinary for me,” Adhaniá admitted, glancing at the flickering torchlight that cast strange patterns on the filmy curtains.

  “Is it very difficult, the Dance of the Flames?”

  “That is not my real concern; the dance is easy. I was just thinking what my brother would say if he knew I was dancing before a roomful of Romans.”

  Layla nodded. “Mistress, may the gods give wings to your feet tonight.”

  “And calm my fears,” Adhaniá muttered.

  When they arrived at Senator Quadatus’s home, torch-bearing servants led the way to the back door, and Adhaniá was shown to a chamber while her two guards stood just outside. After Layla had helped her into the costume, she pulled a cloak about her. Now that the moment had come, Adhaniá’s hands shook, and her knees felt weak.

  She feared there was little hope she would uncover anything these Romans were planning.

  Adhaniá nervously stepped into a corridor with Heikki on one side of her and Layla on the other. She avoided looking at the hooded man who walked behind her—if it was Apollodorus, he would not want her to draw attention to him. When they passed a curtained area, Adhaniá caught a glimpse of a woman who ducked into the shadows so quickly, she wondered if she had only imagined it. For a moment she wondered if it had been Marcellus’s mother.

  Heikki looked at her worriedly and spoke to her in Bedouin, the only language they would speak tonight. “Are you ready for what you must do?”

  “As much as I will ever be,” she answered in the same language.

  She felt the mosaic tile cool beneath her bare feet and shivered. “When I am ready to enter the room, you must be prepared to hand me the torch, Heikki.”

  “This I already know.”

  In her nervousness, she stumbled, and the cloaked man reached out to steady her. She lowered her head, going through the dance steps in her mind. Her entourage halted in the shadow of the arched doorway, and Adhaniá peered inside the large banquet chamber. Plump couches stood beside low tables abounding in food and wine flasks. The men were eating and drinking with relish, and she heard several lewd remarks that made her blush.

  “Which are the men I am supposed to single out, Heikki?” she asked quickly.

  He turned back to the hooded man, whispered to him, then nodded toward the fat man guzzling his wine. “Senator Quadatus you already know. The man beside him is Senator Cassius.”

  Cassius lifted a cluster of grapes and tore one off with his teeth. He watched Quadatus shuttle from couch to couch, strutting like a peacock. The man was baseborn, at least on his mother’s side—he had only won a seat in the Senate by his prowess at war. Granted, Quadatus had fought well in battle, but his manners were crass. He had married well when he chose his second wife, who came from a patrician family of the highest rank. Most people, including Cassius, wondered why a highborn lady had married such a man. He detested Quadatus, but he needed someone unscrupulous, a man who would do anything to further his ambitions. That man was Quadatus.

  His suspicions were running rampant, fed by the fact that Tribune Valerius had suddenly taken an interest in his stepfather. “Tell me—why is your stepson not here tonight?”

  Quadatus dropped down on the couch and reached for a leg of mutton. “Rome, the city that rules the world, now turns its hands to building bridges and libraries. Thanks to Caesar, my stepson heads those projects and has no time for frivolity, or so he told me,” Quadatus spat, envy poisoning his words.

  “There is no doubt Marcellus is Caesar’s man,” Cassius reminded him.

  “No doubt at all. Even Queen Cleopatra favors him. She gave him a valuable dancing girl as his slave.”

  “You implied Marc Antony has treated you like a personal friend.”

  “No one could have been more surprised than I.” Quadatus took a bite of the meat and chewed for a moment. “I tell you, Antony likes me.”

  Danger signals stabbed in Cassius’s brain. “He allowed you to call him ‘Antony’?” Cassius knew Marc Antony well, and Quadatus was not the kind of man he would befriend unless he had a reason—Antony always had a reason for what he did. Sweat popped out on Cassius’s forehead, and he swiped it away with a damp hand. If Antony was suspicious, or if he had heard any rumblings of plots against Caesar, he would strike before Cassius had time to flee Rome.

  “When you were with them, did either of them try to question you—did Antony?”

  “Nay. I would have known if they were setting a trap for me.” Quadatus grinned and took another bite of the meat, the grease gathering in the crevices about his mouth. “You will see how my stepson honors me this very night. He has loaned me a gift beyond price.”

  “You have hinted as much. But the last time I noticed, Marcullus had no liking for you. How is it he has so readily embraced you now?”

  “It’s his mother’s influence. I did right in choosing Sarania for my wife.”

  Cassius was not so sure. Time was against him and his fellow conspirators. Tonight he must decide whether to draw Quadatus into their circle. “Whatever can it be that has you so excited this evening?”

  “My stepson loaned me his Egyptian dancer!”

  “Ah, a dancer. They are plentiful as gnats on a goat—why should this one be exceptional?”

  Quadatus licked his lips just thinking about her. “I’ll wager you haven’t seen the likes of this one. When you watch her dance, you will agree no other can compare with her.”

  Cassius’s eyes narrowed. “Has it occurred to you that your stepson may have sent her as a spy? Can you trust anyone who is connected with Queen Cleopatra?”

  “Bah, you worry like an old woman. She is just what she seems—a beautiful dancer who will entertain us for the night. I am told she is from some Bedouin tribe in Egypt and speaks only her native tongue.”

  “Let her dance so I can judge for myself. I trust no one who stands close to either Caesar or Marc Antony. And even less someone connected to that Egyptian harlot.”

  “I despise my stepson, but why do you mistrust his motives?”

  “Fool, there must be a solid reason for Caesar to reward Marcellus, and that gives me reason to be suspicious.”

  “Marcellus was born into a family of privilege and wealth, and that, in itself, is reward enough,” Quadatus said bitterly, “but I have no reason to mistrust him.”

  Adhaniá stood poised at the entrance as the flute players began to play, and the man playing the lyre plucked the strings. When the drummer joined the other musicians, it caught everyone’s attention, and Adhaniá burst into the room with a torch in her hand.

  As before, her costume was modest. But what the men didn’t know was that her robes were layered, and she wore three, each more revealing than the last. The first costume was white with gold bells sewn about the hem that tinkled when she moved. The second
was a soft blue, and the last was vermillion, reminding her of a desert sunset. It was the most revealing.

  When she whirled about the room, the hues blended in flashes of color.

  * * *

  In the shadow of the corridor Marcellus stood beside Heikki, a gray linen hood hiding his features. “She did not recognize you,” Heikki said, watching Adhaniá dance.

  “Nor should she know. I am responsible for her safety and would not have allowed her to come into this house of vipers without my protection.”

  Heikki glared at the tribune with dislike. “It is I who am her protector, not you!”

  “Whether you like it or not, your queen made me responsible for Lady Adhaniá. If you were her protector at the Bedouin camp, you did not do so well—did you?”

  The two men glared at one another, and then Marcellus said, “We are not here to trade insults. We both want to keep Adhaniá safe.”

  Heikki nodded. “I don’t like those men looking at her with lust. The Dance of the Flames is meant to heat a man’s blood, and it has only begun. See how she tosses the torch and catches it without burning her hands—it is an art few dancers can master.”

  Heikki was right about the dance heating a man’s blood. Marcellus watched her whirl while fluidly removing her outer costume and tossing it away. The pale blue gown shimmered against her skin and cupped her breasts, outlining them for all to see. He felt fire in his loins as Adhaniá swayed and enticed with her impassioned movements. He detested his stepfather’s lascivious gaze, which swept across Adhaniá’s soft curves.

  Marcellus leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to blank out the sight of her. How she tormented him!

  He had been too long without a woman.

  He did not want any woman but her.

  Adhaniá heard the men react to her dance with shouts of encouragement. She tossed the flaming torch into the air, every line of her body elegantly poised. Without missing a beat, she caught the torch and swung it around her head. One hand gracefully arched upward while she twirled the torch with the other one. Her hips moved in time with the drumbeat, and she edged closer to the men seated on the couches. A thin pink veil covered the lower part of her face, showing only her eyes outlined with kohl. Her dark lashes swept across her golden eyes seductively. The golden beads that fell across her forehead made a tinkling sound with every move she made.