Assassin's Heart

by Monica Burns

  Flaming missiles from the massive weapons sent men scattering like roaches exposed to light as the deadly balls of fire fell from the sky. With the line broken, it was impossible to hold off the advancing army. The fighting had not yet reached the river, and he saw two of his tribunes directing the retreat across the makeshift structure that barely passed for a bridge.

  Men staggered their way across the less-than-sturdy planks, while horses, some with riders, swam against the strong current in their effort to reach the opposite shore. Carefully, he negotiated his way through the carnage to where his tribunes were shouting orders in first one direction and then another. Quinton was the first to see him.

  “Cak , what are you still doing here! You said you were going to cross more than an hour ago.”

  “I was detained. How many have crossed?”

  “Two cohorts.”

  “Two,” he exclaimed as his gut twisted. Less than a thousand men out of almost fifty thousand.

  “Maximus, you must cross the river now. The Praetorian Guard won’t follow anyone but you. And you need to ensure the Tyet of Isis doesn’t fall into Octavian’s traitorous hands.”

  “Maxentius—”

  “The emperor is dead,” Quinton shouted, his horse rearing up as a ball of fire hit the ground near the bridge. “The battle is lost. You must go now. Crispian and I shall meet you at the Porta Flaminia as planned.”

  He hesitated and looked over his shoulder at the chaos behind him. The cohorts he’d ordered to fall back and cross the river were doing just as he’d instructed. But in all the chaos that reigned, he doubted many of them would survive the crossing. With a sharp nod at the tribune, he steered his horse down the riverbank and into the water. The Tyet of Isis was the last thing he was worried about at the moment. Praise the gods he’d managed to convince Maxentius to let him hide the precious box. At least it was safe for the moment.

  Another fireball shot through the air to land directly on the rickety bridge. The sickly smell of burning flesh and death clung to him like sweat. Steeling himself to look back in Quinton’s direction, he saw his young tribune struggling to bring his horse under control. He started to go back when another fireball landed directly on top of his friend.

  His gut twisted at the horrific sight. It was too late for his friend. The only thing he could do was continue toward the south bank and retreat to the Porta Flaminia. From there he’d be able to take stock of what was left of Maxentius’s army and what sort of terms he could secure for the men. Shrieks of agony and terror filled the air as he urged his stallion into deeper water. All around him, men struggled to swim their way to the opposite shore amidst a growing number of bodies in the water.

  Although tired, his large horse carried him safely to the south bank of the river. Here the chaos was muted. Whether out of years of habit or orders, the men who’d survived the crossing had fallen into rows of four men across as they trudged their way along the Via Flaminia back to Rome.

  The road that led to Cass and Demetri. They were his sanctuary from all this death and destruction. Vesta help him if anything happened to either of them. A shout off to his left made him turn his head, and he saw Crispian riding toward him. The man saluted as he pulled his horse to a halt then grasped his arm in greeting.

  “Praise the gods you’re still alive. When I saw Quinton fall, I was certain you had joined him in the Elysium Fields.”

  “I am apparently harder to kill than most.” They were words he’d repeated to Cass time and again, but he never intended to say them to her again.

  This was his last battle. He was through. It wasn’t just the defeat they’d suffered here, it was the unnecessary carnage. Most importantly, it was Octavian’s betrayal. The traitor had broken rank and taken one cohort of the Praetorian Guard and thousands of other soldiers with him to join Constantine’s ranks. The son of a bitch had pitted brother against brother today. And he’d not rest until Octavian was dead.

  Another shout filled the air, and he turned his head to see Tevy riding toward him. An icy chill slithered down his back. He’d left the tribune in Rome to monitor the mood of the Senate and ensure the safety of his family. The fact that he was here meant only one thing. Something bad had happened. The man brought his horse to a skidding halt, his expression grim.

  “The mood of the city is unstable, and I fear the domina and the child are in grave danger, il mio signore .”

  His most trusted tribune’s words made him colder than the October waters of the Tiber had. Hands already stiff from the chilly river crossing, he went rigid as he considered the ramifications of what had happened. Crispian, his horse fidgeting until he forced the

  animal to walk in a tight circle, jerked his head in the direction of Rome.

  “If your family is in danger, then mine and the others are as well. We both know what will happen to the children if Octavian finds them first.”

  “He will not let them live,” Maximus whispered to himself.

  Demetri and the other children had the blood of Praetorian sires flowing through their veins. Praetorian fathers who’d taken the potion Alexander had brought back from India. If they’d inherited any abilities from their fathers, they would be a threat to Octavian and Constantine. Already his own son was showing great strength when it came to moving objects and reading minds. He knew Crispian’s children had displayed similar qualities.

  “We must get them out of Rome,” Crispian said grimly.

  His tribune was right. The children had to be protected at all costs. He met Crispian’s worried gaze and nodded.

  “How many families do you think are still in the city?”

  “At least twenty, I cannot say for certain.” The tribune’s features were dark with worry.

  “Take what’s left of the cavalry. Get as many of the families as you can out of Rome and head for Civitavecchia. Take only what you can carry. My wife’s aunt has an estate there. You’ll find sanctuary there until you’re able to move northward to Tevy’s estate in Genova.”

  “What about you?” Crispian asked in a sharp tone. “You’re the strongest of us all, except for Octavian. We cannot afford to lose you.”

  “No. We cannot afford to lose the children.” He ignored the way every part of him was shouting for him to go in Crispian’s stead, but his duty was here. “I will lead the men back to Rome. We should reach the Porta Flaminia in less than three hours. Once there, I’ll negotiate … terms of surrender.”

  Both men stared at him in grim acknowledgment of their defeat. It was the first time in all the years they’d known each other that they’d suffered such a blow. Still Crispian hesitated.

  “Come with us. Constantine will grant the men immunity. The officers are the threat, especially those of us who’ve drunk the potion.”

  “My duty lies here. Now go.” He sent his old friend a look that told the man it was a command.

  With an abrupt nod, Crispian immediately urged his horse into a gallop. As the tribune

  rode away, Tevy waited in silence for his orders.

  “Take four men from my personal guard with you back to Rome.” Maximus pointed toward a small contingent of soldiers a short distance away. “I want my wife and son out of the city as quickly as possible. You know Octavian will go after them first.”

  “If necessary, I will give my life to save them.” His friend’s heartfelt words created a knot in Maximus’s throat.

  “You are a loyal friend, Tevy.”

  “We have known each other for many years. I do not believe destiny is finished with us yet.” With a sharp salute, Tevy rode away to do as he’d been ordered.

  As Maximus watched his friend ride off, he prayed that Vesta granted him the wish to see Cassiopeia and their son again. He turned to face the Tiber River. On the north side of the water, the fighting had pushed many soldiers into the river. With no place to run, they were being cut down like animals. Resolve locked his jaw into place. There was nothing he could do for those poor bastards. But as f
or the men on the south bank, he could get them safely back to Rome.

  With a loud cry, he dug his heels into the sides of his horse and began the task of reorganizing what was left of Maxentius’s army. It was an arduous job. More than twothirds of his Praetorians had either defected or were dead. It forced him to rely on the centurions to get the companies into order. It took almost four hours to reach the Porta Flaminia, and when they arrived, a small contingent of men bearing the symbol Constantine had carried into battle greeted them.

  The sight of the banner, with its P and X intertwined on the white cloth, fluttering in the breeze, made his gut clinch with resignation. He should have done as Crispian said. He should have returned to Rome for Cass. Instead, he’d sealed his fate as a prisoner that Constantine would eventually put to death. One of the new emperor’s representatives rode out to meet him, and he pulled his horse up short, waiting for the rider to reach him.

  “Legatus Maximus Caecilius Atellus?”

  He answered the question with a nod and waited for the man to continue. With the traditional Roman salute, the soldier handed him a scroll of parchment.

  “Emperor Constantine extends his greetings and wishes to assure you there will be no repercussions for any supporters of Maxentius. He asks that you meet with Legatus Octavian to discuss the disbandment of the Praetorian Guard.”

  His fingers curled around the scroll, crushing it. Empathy swept across the soldier’s face, but the man said nothing. Aware he needed to respond, he offered the man an abrupt nod.

  “I accept the … Emperor Constantine’s offer.” He swallowed the fury rising inside him at the thought of having to report to a traitor. “Where might I find Legatus Octavian?”

  “He’s dealing with some unrest in the city. Several of the more fanatical Church followers are threatening to burn several citizens at the stake.”

  “I thought you said there would be no repercussions,” he snarled. “I hardly call burning someone at the stake a display of benevolence.”

  “The mob’s actions are not condoned by the emperor,” the man said stiffly. “Legatus Octavian has gone to stop the slaughter.”

  The words were like icy water streaming through his blood. The man didn’t know Octavian was a fanatic follower of the Nazarene. He wouldn’t hesitate to burn heretics who refused to convert to his way of thinking. The man hadn’t gone to stop the mob, he’d gone to watch. A sudden image of Cass filled his head, and for a moment, he could have sworn he’d heard her call out his name.

  The sound had been so real, he found himself surveying the landscape in hopes that she was somewhere close by. When he didn’t see her, his mind closed around the fact that Octavian wanted the Tyet of Isis , and he’d do anything to get it. He stopped himself. Not even Octavian had the colei to murder a senator’s daughter. He ignored the voice inside him that said otherwise.

  “Then perhaps I might return home and make myself presentable for the Legatus.”

  “Of course.” Once again, understanding flashed across the man’s face as he nodded. “We’ll see that your men are fed and the wounded cared for.”

  There was a sympathetic note in the young man’s voice that indicated his sincerity. It made it that much harder to accept the man’s offer. Hate he could deal with, but not this quiet concern from the enemy. He swallowed hard, and with a few instructions to the lead centurion, he nudged his horse forward. The Porta Flaminia grew closer, and he’d almost reached the gate when a familiar figure rode out of the city at breakneck speed. Tevy. His heart stopped as he acknowledged the fact that Cass and Demetri weren’t with the tribune. He sagged in the saddle. They were gone, and he’d never felt so alone in his life.

  LYSANDER shot upright in bed with a shout. His heart pounded like a freight train in his chest as he gasped for air. Almost immediately, a pair of soft arms wrapped their way around his shoulders and waist as Phaedra pressed her warmth into his side. She wasn’t gone. She was here with him. He hadn’t lost her. Her hand stroked the back of his neck as she pressed her lips against his bare shoulder.

  It was a tender touch that made him realize what Maximus had lost. A shudder rippled

  through him. The battle he’d just seen was haunting in its sharp clarity and vivid imagery. He understood death, although he’d never seen anything on this grand a scale before. It had been so real he could still smell the stench of it.

  It had sickened him then just as much as it did now. The thought made him stiffen. It was a Freudian slip—nothing more. But the battle wasn’t the most horrifying part of the dream. He’d seen, felt, what Maximus had experienced when his tribune had rode out of the Flaminia Gate to meet him. The man’s wife and son were dead.

  “Hush, carino, shhh. It was just a bad dream.” Her voice soothed him, but it didn’t lessen the ache deep inside.

  “He lost them,” he whispered.

  “What are you talking about, caro? Who lost who?”

  “Maximus. I saw him when he received the news that Cassiopeia and Demetri were dead.”

  He gently broke free of her embrace and fell backward into the pillows. His eye closed, he saw the image of Tevy riding out toward Maximus. The memory of that last moment in his dream filled him with the same despair he’d experienced just before he’d woken up. It echoed the sense of hopelessness he’d experienced the night Nicostratus had told him he was a half-breed.

  If there was anything about Maximus that resonated in him, it was that despair. The knowledge that things would never be the same no matter what he did to atone for his choices. If Phaedra were ever to learn his secret, she wouldn’t just hate him for his tainted blood. She’d hate him for hiding the fact from her. For making love to her without telling her what he really was. It might not have been a conscious choice the first time, but every time he made love to her, he was making a choice.

  For the past week and a half, he’d awakened every morning to her nestled in his arms. He’d still not figured out what sort of ground rules to set for their relationship. Instead, they’d simply fallen into a comfortable, yet open-ended routine. Once they’d finished their cataloging of monuments for the day, they’d come back to the installation, have dinner, and come back to his apartment for some quiet time together.

  She hadn’t pressed him for a commitment, but he knew she would eventually. The farther down the road the better. He needed time to come up with a solution that would allow them a permanent relationship without the blood bond. That wasn’t going to be easy to do. Phaedra wouldn’t understand his refusal to seal their relationship. She shifted her body to lie on her side, her head propped up with her hand, while her other hand rested on the spot where his heart was still pounding at a quick pace.

  “You said Demetri was dead.” Her soft observation made him turn his head toward her.

  “Yes.” He shrugged slightly. “Demetri was their son.”

  “How do you know that?”

  The question pulled every muscle in his body taut like a wire. He knew she still believed their dreams were interconnected, but she’d not pressed him on the matter in several days. It seemed the topic was officially off hiatus. Just looking at her face, he knew she’d recognized the name Demetri. He just didn’t want to know how she knew the name. Her gaze narrowed on him, that lovely mouth of hers tight with determination. He shrugged as he tried to come up with an answer that would satisfy her and yet save him from the trap he knew lay just up ahead.

  “I must have heard it somewhere.”

  He wasn’t about to confess that this wasn’t the first time he’d remembered the name. The first time had been the dream he’d had of Pha—Cassiopeia being pregnant. The images from that dream came flooding back, and he clenched his jaw. He wasn’t going there.

  “Where did you hear it?” Her persistence made him grimace.

  “Merda, I don’t remember,” he growled.

  “Of course you don’t,” she snapped. “That’s because none of the stories we’ve heard ever mentioned a son or a Demet
ri.”

  “Christus, woman, it was just a dream. I must have heard the name somewhere and my head just threw it in for the hell of it. It doesn’t mean a goddamned thing.”