Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity

by Carolyn McCray

  Fated

  by

  Carolyn McCray

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  Early Reviews

  “From Carolyn McCray comes a historical romance that will leave you hoping that for once, fate will be kind. You will be gripped from the first page to the last, caught in a love that spans eons and an ancient political intrigue whose consequence still reverberates today. This is truly a masterpiece that stays with you long after you’ve turned the last page.”

  Emma Gilbertson

  Reviewer

  This Writer Bites Back

  “If you love historical romances with a fantastic paranormal twist, Fated is for you. Set in ancient Rome, Fated is the perfect blend of suspenseful and sultry. Truly a great read. You will never look at Brutus—& Caesar’s assassination—the same way.”

  Amber Scott

  @amberscottbooks

  Best-selling Author of Irish Moon

  “I was enthralled by this book—enthralled by the time period, the romance, the characters, and the historical events unfolding… Kudos, Ms. McCray!”

  Tessa Blue

  @TessaBlue

  Author of Children of the Lost Moon

  “Fated is full of suspense. It does not let go… As usual, Ms. McCray’s style and writing are brilliant.”

  M. Koleva

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  Start Reading

  Table of Contents

  More Books by Carolyn

  Contact Information

  Newsletter/Exclusive Content

  Copyright Information

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  PROLOGUE

  The air was heavy with un-spilt rain as the warrior surveyed the battlefield, a deep frown spreading. It seemed that the gods themselves laid down a thick cover of clouds to block the horrendous sight below. The smell of death hung in the still air. Hidden within the thick forest just south of the conflict, the commander’s concern grew. This was to be a day of Spanish victory. The moment when Spain finally threw off the yoke of Rome’s supremacy.

  Gripping the pommel of the saddle, the commander realized that Caesar was a more potent enemy than any had thought before. The Roman’s burgundy-crested centurions pushed the line farther and farther up the Spanish hill. As the morning sun struggled through the dark clouds, the legionnaires’ bronze armor sparkled as if encrusted with exotic gems. Despite fighting uphill on soil very far from their home, it was as if Julius’ legions were kissed by the gods.

  The Romans had been on a forced march for over a week, yet these glittering soldiers were making quick work of the Spanish countrymen defending their land.

  “Torvus!” a shout rose from the north.

  The warrior acknowledged the summons, but took little pride in the name. Latin for “reprimand,” the name Torvus was a questionable honor given to this hard-edged foreigner. Like the Romans, Torvus was born far from these lands. Instead of originating from the south like the legionnaires, the commander came from the North, a fact that Torvus’ red hair could not hide—not amongst the sea of raven hair that graced the Spanish.

  As much as the warrior’s pale skin stirred distrust in these peasants, they knew the Northerner’s blade would be needed against the Romans. Torvus had spent weeks preparing the troops—trying to instill the grit and fortitude they would need this day. Despite the warrior’s stern words and harsh training, the Spanish still faltered back another few steps. Torvus groaned. No amount of discipline would save this day. The Romans could smell victory with every inch they crept forward. Their swords arced higher. The archers grew bolder with each volley.

  Worse, these peasants were trapped in a war not of their own making. Pompey— Spain’s former governor—might have been of Roman descent, with his flowing white robes and rigid nose, but he had treated these peasants fairly. After Caesar executed Pompey for treason, this region of Hispalis had resisted Julius. The balding general had ruled Spain years ago, and these peasants wanted nothing more to do with Rome’s excesses. They sought freedom and independence.

  Torvus strove for something very different. No, this Northerner fought because there were Romans across the battlefield. Any day to kill Romans was a good day.

  Orphaned so many years ago by the Empire’s attempt to subjugate Scotland, Torvus needed no other reason to take up arms against the Romans than that they breathed. Bile stung the back of the commander’s throat at the mere glimpse of the gold banner of Rome. Especially this one named Caesar, who thought himself the next Alexander the Great.

  A runner, no more than a boy, panted as he skidded to a halt beside Torvus’ towering stallion. “The regent has ordered that you engage battle.”

  Torvus’ frown deepened. The warrior’s battalion had been held in reserve to sweep in from the east and trap the Romans between the main battlefield and their route of retreat.

  It was too soon to commit this reserve. Once unleashed, this strategy could not be retrieved. Did the Spaniard not know of Caesar’s prowess? The Roman had conquered far greater hosts then this meager Spanish assembly. And these troops were no more than peasants. The regent had even freed slaves just to swell their ranks for this battle.

  Julius did not win with his strong fighting arm or his skill at the bow. It was common knowledge that even if Diana were standing over his shoulder, Caesar’s arrow could not strike a mark.

  No, it was the general’s mind that separated him from his contemporaries. Torvus had studied him. This Caesar thought like none other. He took nothing for granted. The Roman assumed the battle would turn foul and always had a contingency.

  Despite his arrogant manner, Julius was most humble in his strategy. Many of the Roman’s enemies, both foreign and native, had thought the moment ripe to strike, only to find Caesar three strides to the left, with his own sword raised for the mortal blow.

  Torvus knew that to underestimate the Roman was to lose before the battle even began. That is why the warrior had insisted on keeping a large number of troops in reserve. They must have a contingency of their own. Torvus eyed the west. Caesar was equally well prepared. The legendary general had held back a number of his African horsemen. Those cavalry could easily be sent to reinforce their rear.

  But it was not Torvus’ place to question the regent. The warrior had sworn an oath of obedience, and the Northerner was not one to break a vow. Yet in the center of the warrior’s marrow, Torvus knew to hold back. This battle could drag on for hours. Let the enemy tire. The Romans had marched a hard seven days from Corduba. The countryside villagers had given the Romans grief by stealing their supplies, stampeding their horses, and generally making them wish they had never entered Hispalis. The regent needed Caesar to feel safe in victory so that the Roman would commit those foot cavalry to the front line.

  Torvus knew that the Spanish troops were not experienced, but they were fresh, and their homes lay not a few hectares away—a village that would be burned to nothing if they did not win this battle. No one fought more desperately than those whose families’ fates rested in his hands. But even as the warrior watched, the front line stumbled back another step, losing precious inches. If they fell back another few yards, the Romans would reach the plateau, and the Spanish would lose their slim advantage.

  If only Torvus had been graced with more time. These men were unseasoned and had not fought in dozens of wars, as the Northerner had. How could they know that a battle looking as lost as this one could turn upon the tip of a sword? Once, Torvus had seen a single stable boy’s shout of encouragement turn the tide of battle outside Vichy. The warrior’s troops had rallied and swarmed the legionnaires within minutes. But these peasants were ignorant. Th
ey worried for the rough pitchforks they held in their hands. They feared the bronze-tipped spears that the Romans brandished. These simple folk did not understand what spelled victory. It mattered far more what was inside one’s heart than the weapon one gripped in the hand.

  Perhaps the regent was correct. Thunder rumbled in the distance, heralding the gods’ impatience. If they waited much longer the center of the Spanish line would break, and all would be lost. Torvus nodded to the boy and spurred the stallion forward. This battle would be decided before Apollo reached his zenith.

  Torvus rode in front of the assembled troops and boldly stared into each man’s eyes. If they were to die today, it would be as free men. Each could hear the strangled cries from the battlefield. Each knew death lay but a few yards away. Yet each answered the warrior’s gaze with pride and commitment.

  All except Torvus’ lieutenant, Karret. This boy thought that he should be riding upon the stallion, leading his countrymen into battle. The warrior frowned at the young man’s arrogance. The boy had yet to truly fight in any campaign. Karret was the son of the smithy who forged the easily broken swords they carried. Without that stature, the boy never would have held a rank such as lieutenant.

  Not rising to Karret’s bait, Torvus rode past the youth and turned back to the troops. There was no long inspirational speech, or even a wailing cry. They dare not give away their position. It was crucial that the attack be a surprise. Torvus’ hand rose, feeling the rough texture of the leather gauntlet for a single heartbeat, then the fist was clasped.

  The Northerner did not look back as the stallion surged onto the battlefield proper. The warrior knew that the troops charged close behind.

  Pure rage coursed through Torvus’ blood, blunting the bone-jarring impact when the warrior’s stallion hit the enemy’s rear. The Romans had been preoccupied by the clash of armor at the front line and were mowed down in the wake of Torvus’ charge. The stallion spun and kicked as the warrior created confusion to allow the Spanish troops to descend the slope.

  Now that the Romans were engaged on two sides, the favor momentarily turned to the Spanish. Caesar’s legion had no choice but to shuffle to meet this new force, which broke the forward thrust up the hill. This was the Spaniards’ keening blow. They must take advantage of this breach before the elite Romans regrouped. With a resounding shout, Torvus spurred the stallion forward, into the thick of the Romans.

  Some stood their ground, but many scattered under the horse’s flailing hooves. The peasants needed to see that these Romans were not gods—not even minor deities. Underneath all of that ornate armor and bright feathers, the legionnaires were nothing more than men. And men could die.

  Despite the warrior’s best efforts, these Romans were well seasoned and reorganized readily. And as the warrior had feared, the dark horsemen were summoned to the rear. While battling three soldiers at once, Torvus begged the gods a boon. Without something to quicken these green Spanish troops, they would lose their momentum.

  In answer, an arrow flew through the sky and struck Torvus in the left arm. Biting back a cry, the warrior’s arm went limp, dropping the broadsword onto the blood-soaked ground. It was as if the sun tired of its journey across the sky. Time crawled as if it were a newborn. It seemed that all eyes were upon the warrior. Not just those of the reinforcement troops stared at the injury, but the battle-weary Spaniards from the front line sought the warrior’s pained expression. The entire battlefield held its breath.

  This was the gods’ boon. Torvus had fought many a war, and knew this to be one of those most precious moments when a single person could turn the tide of battle.

  Without care to the damage done, Torvus took the shaft of the arrow and in full view of both Spaniard and Roman, snapped it off at the skin. The motion sent daggers of pain throughout the injured arm as the metal scraped bone, but Torvus held the stallion’s seat. Despite the agonizing pain, the warrior drew a knife from a hidden pocket in the saddle and threw it with all the force that could be mustered.

  As if the Romans’ own goddess, Diana, guided the blade, it struck the archer in the throat, right beneath his protective strap. The man pitched forward. A cry went up along the front line, and the Romans had to fall back a step. But it was a most important step. It taught these flushed peasants that even Rome could be forced into retreat.

  Drawing a short sword from its scabbard, Torvus fought with even more verve. This battle could be won. The thought numbed the pain as no healer could. The thrusts and parries blurred into one as the fighting dragged on, but these Romans were hardy, and this legion of Caesar’s was particularly stalwart. Torvus might have admired their constitution if they had not been birthed by the nation that burned towns and clubbed babes.

  Just at the edge of the warrior’s vision, Torvus saw one of the Spaniards go down. Glancing back, Torvus found the sneering lieutenant scrambling away from a well-armed Roman. The true battle lay ahead, yet the warrior could not turn a cold shoulder to a comrade, no matter how much disliked.

  In two strides, the stallion brought Torvus alongside the legionnaire. With a single swipe, the Roman’s head was cleaved from his body. Even saved, the lieutenant gave no sign of thanks or a word of warning.

  The first that Torvus knew of the rear attack was when the lance pierced the warrior’s thick leather armor and split it open. The Roman’s blade sliced through the commander’s cloth and skin as if they were butter.

  Torvus could not keep the ample fullness of her breast from losing its binding. Blood poured from the wound, coursing down the very feminine cleavage. Not caring of the exposure, the warrior swept the blade back and caught the assailant in the chin, splitting open his skin down to the bone.

  All was not lost. Torvus was turned away from the force of battle. This dark secret, well hidden beneath layers of clothes, need never see the light of day. It could have been kept, except for the lieutenant whose eyes had dilated to the point of complete blackness.

  Karret pointed to the exposed nipple. “You are a woman.”

  Torvus did not respond. There was no time for explanations or excuses. Whether they called her Torvus or by her given name, Syra, she was needed in battle.

  “Help me bind the wound,” Syra ordered. The warrior could feel the tide turning behind them. The troops needed her seated and rallying forward, crushing the Romans between their forces.

  Instead of helping, the spoiled son of the blacksmith took a step back.

  “Impostor!” the boy hissed.

  Could this child not understand that despite her full breasts, in her heart she was not a woman, but a warrior? Had she not fought valiantly? Had she not won battle after battle for this man’s country? What did it matter her sex? But the man’s face was contorted with rage.

  It mattered greatly to him.

  Syra tried a different tack. “I will leave your town once the battle—”

  “Impostor!” Karret stated, loud enough for the closest troops to hear.

  Syra kicked her horse forward and grabbed the lieutenant’s arm. “We can win this. Do not allow—”

  Her entreaty was no use. The man shouted at the top of his pampered lungs, “Impostor!”

  Weakened from her injuries, Syra could not repel the lieutenant when he forced her to turn toward the troops. At first, her soldiers did not understand. The blood distracted them from her deception. Seemingly unaware of the damage he was doing to his battle or his home, the lieutenant ripped the warrior’s armor completely off. Now, naked above the waist, Syra’s femininity could not be hidden. The looks of shock and fear replaced the troops’ confidence.

  With her identity revealed, the Spaniards milled about, and the Romans were quick to push their advance. Whether it was the blood loss, the pain, or the feeling of betrayal, Syra’s vision blurred. A blow from behind saved the warrior from seeing her battle lost.

  * * * * *

  Those ills your ancestors have done,

  Romans! Are now become your own:

&
nbsp; And they will cost you dear,

  Unless you soon repair

  The falling temples, which the gods provoke,

  And statues, sullied yet with sacrilegious smoke.

  Propitious Heaven, that raised your fathers high

  For humble, grateful piety,

  As it rewarded their respect

  Hath sharply punished your neglect.

  Horace

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  Brutus’ lips turned down as the women once again tugged at his silk sash. With Caesar returning this eve from his resounding victory in Spain, the women of his household were having near fits ensuring that their appearance was regal beyond question. Given Brutus’ outward support of Pompey, everyone knew that it was only through Caesar’s generosity that they lived, let alone attend this festival as guests of honor.

  “Brutus! Do not slouch!” Olivia, his ever-critical mother, scolded.

  Feeling as if he were but a babe again, Brutus straightened, but the whole while his jaw tensed. Did these women know nothing? Caesar cared not for fashion. Julius was a shrewd tactician. He knew that the only way to reunify the Republic was to show what a benevolent leader he had become in his travels. Caesar’s decision was calculated to calm the public. It did not rest upon vanity, such as whose purple sash most matched the color of his chariot. Brutus knew this, as did his manservant, Horat, but they had been unable to dissuade either Olivia or Lylith, his wife.

  “This will not do! We must have the seamstress come back at once!” Lylith demanded, as her pale cheeks blotched with worry.

  To imagine living through another moment with the shrill old seamstress weighed far too heavily on Brutus. Stepping off the small dais, he turned to his wife. “It will have to do.”