Adhaniá gazed quickly to the east and saw a slight glow—it wasn’t long before sunup, and the passing of time made her desperate.
Moving forward quietly, she went from tree to tree until she was in sight of the campfire. Gazing about, she saw only one horse—but between her and that horse was the sleeping figure of a man, and from the size of him, he was a giant.
Taking a steadying breath, she moved closer still, balancing her weight on the toes of her sandals. She kept a wary eye on the sleeping man; his even breathing told her he was in a deep sleep. She was almost within reach of the horse when the animal reared its head and gave a loud neigh—at the same moment, she stepped on a twig, making a cracking sound.
She watched the man stir and awaken, and she stopped dead still. He reached toward the sword that lay beside him—but she was faster—swooping down, she grabbed it, turning the tip toward him.
For a big man, he was surprisingly quick on his feet. He unsheathed his dagger, looking at her in shock.
“So you thought to rob me while I slept,” he said, lunging at her. “Am I a fool that a scrawny girl can catch me unaware?”
He was even taller than she’d thought—his black hair was long and tangled about a pleasant face—he was even smiling. She judged him to be a young man, but not a Roman. Spanish, she thought. Muscles bulged beneath his jerkin, straining across broad shoulders. Adhaniá was no novice at swordsmanship, but instinct told her this man made his living by the blade. Her only advantage would be to strike first, and to strike quickly.
With a swift lunge, she thrust the sword forward, and the sound of metal against metal clashed through the air while moonlight flashed on the blades. With a quick jab, she stripped the dagger from his hand and sent it flying.
He smiled as the point of his own sword was held to his throat. “I’d wager there is not one female in a thousand who could have unarmed me with such precision. You took me by surprise, pretty lady.”
There was a certain gallantry about him, and she was sorry to be taking his horse.
But she must.
“I am not a thief, and I did not come to rob you.” She shook her head. “But I must borrow your horse for a time. ’Tis a matter of life or death that I reach Rome.”
The man’s brown eyes sparked with humor. “I am in no position to argue the point.” His laughter rang out clear. “I won’t be telling my friends I was bested by a women who is as cunning with a blade as she is beautiful.”
She mounted his horse in a smooth motion and stared down at him. “What is your name?”
He swept her a bow. “Raphael is my name, little beauty.”
“Where can I find you to return your horse to you?”
He looked startled for a moment. “I had not expected a thief to return stolen goods.”
“I told you I am not a thief. If I could accomplish my mission in any other way, I would do so.”
He stared at her as she spun the horse around. “Everyone knows where to find me. Just ask around Trajan Forum for Raphael,” he told her. “But how am I to get to Rome if you have my horse?”
“I have left your food and water with you,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable, and I shall send someone back for you, although it may take some time.”
He grinned and flourished her another bow. “It would seem I am at your mercy. But may I have my sword back? It belonged to my father.”
She nodded, tossing the weapon so it landed on the point, the hilt bobbing back and forth. Without another word, she rode off at a swift gallop. The moon moved lower in the sky, and she feared even now she would be too late to save Caesar.
When Heikki reached Marcellus’s villa, Layla ran out to him. “Have you word of Lady Adhaniá?”
“Not as yet.” He handed the child down to her. “She needs dry clothing and a warm bed. It was luck that brought her into Adhaniá’s life,” he said gruffly. “Tend her well.”
Layla nodded. “She was brave to risk her life for the mistress.”
Heikki had found his gaze following Layla more and more of late. He could recognize her laughter in a room filled with people. She was delicate, her eyes soft with kindness. His body came alive when she brushed past him, and he knew his feelings for her had deepened.
He took the child from her. “I will carry her.”
As he walked beside Layla, he almost stumbled because he was watching her instead of where he was going. Something was blooming and growing inside his heart. How could he love her when he loved Adhaniá? In this world so different from Egypt, he had found a woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Adhaniá was brighter than the sun—this woman had the steady softness of the moon.
His father had been right—he had let Adhaniá go from his heart, and this small woman had taken her place there.
Chapter Thirty
Adhaniá bent low over the horse, attempting to make the animal run at a faster pace. The poor beast was struggling to respond to her commands, but he was past his prime and finally slowed to a trot. No amount of urging on Adhaniá’s part could make him go any faster.
To make matters worse, a heavy mist now hung over the land, shrouding everything in shadows. Adhaniá kept her gaze on the road, fearing she might lose her way. Overwhelmed by frustration, she felt tears gathering in her eyes.
At what time would Caesar go to the Senate?
Probably in the morning hours.
If Ramtat were there, he would tell her not to give up. But she was so weary, and everything was against her—the fog, the horse that could do little more than trot and had now slowed to a walk.
A sudden noise caught her attention. At first it was hard to identify because the fog muted every sound. Too late the fog cleared a bit, and she saw several horsemen bearing down on her. Adhaniá decided it would be wise to get off the road, but it was too late—five riders blocked her path, and her horse had come to a dead halt.
Adhaniá recognized Senator Quadatus’s guards. Sliding off the horse, she decided to try losing herself in the fog. But the men circled her, bumping her with their mounts. And she saw the man she dreaded the most, his scar more prominent than before because his lascivious smile pulled his lip into a cruel snarl.
She was surrounded, and there was nowhere she could run. If only she’d kept the sword instead of giving it back to Raphael, she would have a way to defend herself.
The leader of the guards bumped his horse into her, backing her between his horse and one of the others.
“You’ll pay for making a fool of me,” he said, thrusting his heavy boot into her stomach and sending her careening onto the rough road. She landed hard but managed to drag herself to her feet.
Like a phantom warrior he came out of the mist, sword slashing, bodies falling before him. With four guards down, Marcellus turned to the scar-faced man.
“Move out of the way, Adhaniá,” he warned.
Marcellus’s voice was deadly calm, his eyes flashing like fire when he turned to the last man—the one who had been tormenting Adhaniá. “It is your turn now. Make ready to die!”
“Tribune Valerius, surely you would not raise sword to me,” the man pleaded, looking at the bloody carnage that had been his companions. He had no doubt that he was about to meet his death, for how could a mere guard such as himself cross swords with a tribune of Rome and expect to come out alive? “I was but following orders.”
“Arm yourself. I have no time for cowards.”
Adhaniá watched Marcellus’s sword strike with such force, it knocked the man to the ground. Dismounting, Marcellus stood over the guard, his sword poised above his heart. “If you have any last words, say them now.”
“Please, honored Tribune—don’t kill me for carrying out my master’s orders. I’m but a poor man with a family.”
“You die because you put your hands on something that belongs to me.”
“Your mother? I did not hurt her—I merely took her back to Senator Quadatus as I was ordered.”
�
��Not my mother.” He nodded toward Adhaniá. “Her.”
“But … but—”
“Wait,” Adhaniá cried, running forward. “First make him tell you where they took your mother.”
Marcellus shook his head. “You heard him; she is with her husband.”
Knowing she had no time to debate the matter, she placed her hand over his. “Ask about your mother.”
He nodded. “You heard the lady—she wants to know where you took your mistress.”
“Why should I tell you?” The man licked his trembling lips. “You’ll kill me anyway.”
“Aye,” Marcellus agreed, “but you can die quickly, or you can die slow.”
The guard nodded in acceptance. “My master has her sequestered at the Inn of Trajan.”
Marcellus glanced at Adhaniá. “Satisfied?” She nodded and turned away.
Marcellus thrust his sword straight into the man’s heart, and watched him twitch only once before his eyes took on the blankness of death.
Then Marcellus dropped his sword and drew Adhaniá into his arms, holding her against his heart. “I thought I had lost you.”
She pressed her face against his rough armor. “I am not so easy to lose.”
He tilted up her face, seeing the bruised jaw and the cut lip, and her gown stained with blood. “Did they hurt you?”
Her gaze met his. “No more than my dignity. But do not think of that. We have to reach Caesar as soon as possible!” She pulled away from him and caught the reins of one of the dead guards’ horses. “Your mother warned me that Quadatus and other senators are planning to assassinate Caesar when he enters the Senate today!”
Marcellus looked at her in disbelief. “That cannot be. Antony will be with him. Do you recall other names that were mentioned?”
She reached back in her mind, trying to recall the names his mother had mentioned. “Quadatus, of course. Cassius, a man named Brutus. She said there were others but did not mention their names.”
“Not Brutus. Caesar trusts him. Brutus has always been Caesar’s friend.”
“What does it matter what their names are? Let us assume Caesar will be met with assassins today. We must warn him. If the information proves to be false, what harm will be done? I trust your mother, whether you do or not.”
She flung herself onto the horse. “We must warn Caesar!”
It was difficult for Marcellus to believe anyone would attempt an assassination in the Senate with so many witnesses. Still, Cassius was bold, and Marcellus could not discount the possibility.
“Let’s go directly to the Senate, where I can stand beside Antony against the others, if they be traitors.”
Ides of Martius
15th Martius
Caesar climbed the steps of the building that temporarily housed the Senate, his mind already on the military campaign he would launch against Parthia. Everything was in readiness, and he would be leaving in two days’ time.
Antony, who walked at his side, was suddenly stopped and drawn into a conversation with Senator Gaius Trebonius. Caesar’s thoughts turned to Cleopatra. She had been worried about his safety today—something about a warning and a comet or some such nonsense. All women, even queens, could work themselves into a frenzy over imagined dangers.
As he was about to enter the building, Senator Tillius Cimber approached, kneeling down to offer him a parchment, which Caesar refused with the shake of his head.
Tillius then grabbed Caesar’s toga, and Caesar glanced down at the man, thinking he was acting strangely. At that moment, Ciusa loomed from out of nowhere, dagger in hand, and attempted to drive it into Caesar’s throat, but Caesar managed to deflect the blade.
Something is dreadfully amiss.
Could Cleopatra have been right?
He struggled to escape as other assassins closed in on him from all sides. Cassius’s dagger was the first to strike with accuracy, and it dug into Caesar’s face, bringing a cry of agony from the great man.
Brutus was the next to strike—his dagger slicing into Caesar’s thigh, sending him to his knees.
Twenty-three wounds were inflicted on the dictator. It all happened so quickly, those who would have come to Caesar’s aid were in shock. Already he was a dying man. Blood spattered the conspirators and pooled on the marble floor.
In his dying moments, Caesar grasped his toga and pulled it over his face, denying his enemies the chance to watch him die.
The greatest general Rome had ever known, dictator of most of the world, breathed his last.
Chapter Thirty-One
Adhaniá and Marcellus raced the sun, but by the time they reached Rome it had already burned the fog away.
Marcellus knew it would be but a short time before Caesar would enter the Senate. They did not slow their pace as they raced through the marketplace, and crowds of people scattered to miss their horses’ flying hooves.
When they reached the Senate building, Marcellus leaped from his horse at a run. “Remain with the horses,” he cried over his shoulder. He ran through the crowd that gathered each morning to greet the senators with praise or complaints.
But something was different today—he could feel it. The crowd was silent, as if in shock. With renewed effort, he elbowed his way past them.
His gut wrenched.
He was too late!
The closer he got to his goal, the more desperate the onlookers’ reactions were. There was crying and lamenting, women falling to their knees and shaking their fists in the air.
Drawing his sword, he shoved people out of his way, hurrying inside the building. Marcellus found Antony on his knees with Caesar’s bloody body in his arms.
Antony raised his gaze to Marcellus, tears dulling his eyes. “He is dead,” he said softly, as if he was afraid to speak of it aloud.
Marcellus dropped his sword and went down on his knees beside Antony, unmindful that the great Caesar’s blood soaked his tunic. “They succeeded,” he said, dropping his head in sorrow. Grief tore at him, and it was almost more than he could bear.
“There will be a reckoning for this,” Antony said with feeling, his throat clogged with tears. “I will not stop until I find every one of the traitors and put them to death.”
Marcellus stood, not knowing what chaos would result from this day’s work—Rome could erupt into civil war at any moment. “Yes, those responsible must be brought to death,” he agreed, still stunned. “But for now the people are in a panic, and the news will soon spread throughout the city, then all across the land. The citizens of Rome need to see you—they need to know there is someone to lead them through these dark days.”
Others had gathered, murmuring in disbelief. Many senators were naming the traitors and pressing Antony to seek justice for Caesar.
Marcellus turned to a tribune who was crying openly, and knowing Antony needed time to compose himself, he gave the orders. “Find General Rufio and inform him what has happened. Have him muster Caesar’s Sixth Legion and bring them here to Antony at once. Return as soon as possible. General Antony will have orders for you at that time.”
There were two other officers who were staring at Caesar’s dead body as if they were dazed—as if the most powerful man in the world was not supposed to succumb to death at the hands of mere mortals. Marcellus retrieved the sword he’d dropped earlier and angrily slammed it into the scabbard. “Pull yourselves together, tribunes—Rome has need of you.”
Many ducked their heads, but one met Marcellus’s angry stare. “Senator Quadatus sent word that Caesar needed us at once, and that we were to go to his house. When we arrived, there was no one there but servants. We should have been here to protect Caesar.”
“We will speak of this later. Make Caesar’s body ready with a coin in the mouth, and build a funeral pyre so all Rome can witness what those madmen did to him.”
Antony nodded. “I must present myself to the mob, when all I want to do is hide my face in shame because I was not at Caesar’s side when he needed me most.”
Marcellus looked grim. “You cannot blame yourself—you did all you could to prevent this from happening. Those traitors planned this well. It was no accident that you were pulled away from Caesar’s side this day. Had you been with him, you, too, would have died.”
Antony nodded. “I may have failed him in life, but I shall not fail him in death.”
Marcellus watched his friend’s shoulders straighten as he stared at his blood-stained hands. “All Rome will weep this night, but tomorrow we hunt down traitors!”
Antony still appeared dazed, and stumbled when he tried to take a step. “Have someone purify this place.” He paused. “Nay, I have reconsidered. Let no one touch the blood of Caesar, but allow all who want to enter witness where the tragedy took place.”
Apollodorus entered the chamber where his queen reclined on a couch, a handmaiden waving a feathered fan to cool her in the afternoon heat.
When Cleopatra saw his face, she knew something had happened. She knew Caesar was dead even before Apollodorus could speak of it.
She sat up regally, swung her gold-clad feet off the couch and stood. “Leave me, everyone but you, Apollodorus,” she said, in a voice that was strong and seemingly unaffected. After the others had backed out of the chamber, she turned to him.
“Tell me everything.”
She held herself upright, but her lips trembled as he told of Caesar’s assassination—at least what he knew of it. Apollodorus had rushed to his queen’s side before learning all the details. He had known Cleopatra since her childhood, and in all that time, he’d never seen her weep.
But she cried now—she sobbed, and she trembled, and she went to her knees.
When she reached out to him, Apollodorus understood she wanted him to help her stand.
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