Assassin's Heart

by Monica Burns

  “Phaedra, if this is about Lysander’s father and Mom, I already know.” The harsh, unforgiving note in his voice wasn’t directed at her, but it troubled her just the same.

  “How?”

  “I knew the minute I heard Nicostratus’s voice. It’s not something you forget. I just didn’t realize you knew who he was. I thought maybe you’d managed to block that whole night out of your head.” His words sent relief spilling through her. He already knew. She didn’t have to tell him.

  “I’ve never forgotten his face or his voice.”

  “I should never have let you get close to that peephole.”

  “You were in shock. You didn’t even realize I was looking until it was too late. I wanted to see Mom one last time. Just not like that.”

  Her stomach lurched as she allowed the memories to swell over her. Eyes closed, a tear forced its way out from behind her eyelid and rolled down her cheek. Ares’s hand squeezed hers for a brief moment, and the brotherly love in the gesture warmed her heart.

  “And Lysander?” she asked quietly. “How do you feel about him?”

  “Do you mean the fact that he has Praetorian blood?”

  She shrugged. “Not so much that, but the fact that his father … it doesn’t bother you?”

  “Lysander didn’t have anything to do with Mom and Dad’s death. It’s not his fault that bastard raped his mother.” He eyed her carefully. “I got the impression that the two of you were pretty close. He didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” she said as she averted her gaze from her brother’s curious look. “He didn’t trust me with his secret. And a relationship requires trust. We don’t have that.”

  “You need to cut the guy some slack, Phae. He’s been living with this for a year, now. It had to be hard, trying to reconcile himself to who his real father is, losing the father figure he had growing up.”

  “But he could have told me. Instead, he sent me away that night in Genova.”

  “Christus, Phaedra, the guy went through one hell of a torture session. Two of his men died, and Marta was taken. On top of that, he was dealing with the fear of discovery and

  how people would react.” Ares shook his head in disgust. “Look how all of us reacted last night, and this morning. Can you blame the guy for not trusting anyone with his secret?”

  She winced. Ares was right. She was angry because he hadn’t trusted her, not because he was part Praetorian. And her reaction last night had simply proven he’d been right not to trust her. It was a painful truth.

  “Lysander might have Praetorian blood, but he’s Sicari through and through. And that’s all you need to know.”

  As she met her brother’s dark gaze, she nodded. She loved Lysander. Just like Ares had said, Lysander was still the same man. He hadn’t changed, but everyone else had, including her. She’d failed him. She’d always accused him of running, and yet she’d been running like mad since last night. Now she had to find a way to make him see that. Make him trust her. She didn’t know how she was going to do that, but she’d find a way.

  Chapter 22

  ANCIENT ROME OCTOBER 28, 312 A .D.

  MAXIMUS watched his tribune race toward him with a sickening sensation in his gut. The mere fact that Tevy was alone told him the worst. Cassiopeia and Demetri were gone. Slumping forward in his saddle, he closed his eyes against the pain. An image of Cassiopeia fluttered through his head, her sultry smile tempting him as her hand beckoned him to come to her.

  Grief tore at him like the rabid dogs would soon tear at the rotting flesh of the men he’d left behind at the Tiber River. His hands clutched at his horse’s mane to prevent himself from wheeling the animal around and charging back toward Constantine’s guards-men. As much as he wanted to die at this moment, there was something more important he had to do. Octavian had to be dealt with.

  The grief inside him slowly melted into a raw fury that slid hot and fiery through his veins. He would tear Octavian’s heart out with his bare hands for the bastard’s treachery. Resolved to destroy the man who’d taken everything from him, he straightened in his saddle and waited for Tevy to reach him. As his tribune’s horse slid to a stop, he noted the animal was foaming at the mouth, a sign that Tevy had ridden the mare hard.

  “Where are they?” he asked, fully expecting his tribune to tell him his wife and son were at home being prepared for their funeral.

  “The neighbors say your man, Posca, smuggled the boy out of the house just before Octavian and his men arrived. The domina was taken to Octavian’s house.” Tevy’s words pierced his grief with a ray of hope. They were alive. Renewed energy strengthened him as a plan of action formed in his mind.

  “Posca will keep Demetri safe until we find them. We’ll recover the Tyet of Isis after Cassiopeia is safe and Octavian is dead.”

  “The domina is no longer at Octavian’s home.” Tevy averted his gaze as he continud. “He’s had her taken to the Saepta Julia. I had your men follow them, while I came to find you.”

  “Saepta Julia?” He frowned.

  “He intends to …” Tevy, his expression grim, blanched. “He intends to turn her over to the Nazarene’s fanatics.”

  His tribune’s statement sent ice sluicing over Maximus’s skin. If Octavian gave Cassiopeia to the Church, they’d kill her. The fanatics despised Rome’s religion and traditions. In the back of his mind, he heard a soft whisper. Cassiopeia. Eager to touch her, even if only with his mind, he reached out for her with his thoughts. As his mind touched hers, the panic raging inside her was overwhelming. The images flowing between them only heightened his fear for her. Octavian climbing a makeshift podium. Bundles of wood forming a pyre. As best he could with the threadbare contact he’d achieved, he reassured her that he was coming for her. Her panic eased and as the thread between them unraveled, her courage made him proud. He snapped his head in Tevy’s direction.

  “Pull Titus and Vidal from the ranks. We’ll need them.”

  “They’ll—”

  “Get them, now.”

  He didn’t wait for Tevy to obey the order. He simply tugged at the reins of his horse and sent the animal off at a gallop toward the mounted soldiers Constantine had posted outside the Flaminia gate. He returned moments later with two horses for the two soldiers Tevy had pulled from the ranks.

  “I don’t care who tells you to stop,” he said grimly as he met the gazes of the three men watching him. “You stop for nothing until I tell you to. We ride to the Saepta Julia. Tevy, if something happens to me, you know what to do.”

  Maximus urged his horse into a gallop and raced toward the Porta Flaminia. In minutes, they were inside the city, but the crowded streets slowed their progress. Desperate to reach Cassiopeia, he shouted for people to make way. They did, but far more slowly than his soldiers would have.

  Their snail’s pace created a terror inside him he’d never experienced before on the battlefield. What if he didn’t reach her in time? He fought back the fear and pushed his horse forward. He would reach her. He wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop him. As they drew closer to the Saepta Julia, the crowd thickened and became impassable by horse. He could see the dome of the Pantheon, and he remembered the alleyway he had used when he’d moved the Tyet of Isis from the Temple of Vesta. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Vidal. Stay with the horses,” he snapped. “Tevy, Titus. Rally to me.”

  He was off his horse in one swift move to aggressively push his way through the crowd toward an alleyway flowing into the Via Flaminia. With Tevy and Titus on his heels, he made his way around the back of the Pantheon to the alleyway he’d visited only a few days ago. Here the crowd flowed steadily into the square, but there was less traffic. It made it easier to move forward, and the closer he came to the square at the Saepta Julia, the easier it was to hear brief snippets of one person talking followed by the roar of the crowd. Focusing his thoughts, he reached out to touch Cassiopeia’s mind. He found her easily, which told him she was very close to him. As he continu
ed down the alley, the crowd thickened again, and her fear grew stronger.

  “I know you can hear my thoughts, mea amor. I’m here. Listen to me carefully, mea kara. I need you to show me exactly what you see. All of it.”

  Her fear rushed at him like a wild animal frantic to flee a threat. One hand braced against a building wall, he fought to remain on his feet in the face of her terror. By the gods, he was going to have Octavian’s head for what the bastard was doing. Once more, he pushed through her terror to reach the part of her mind he could reason with.

  “Cassiopeia, enough. Listen to me.”

  Even when talking to her directly, he’d never been so harsh, but it caught her attention and her fear eased somewhat. Relief slowed his heart rate, and he rubbed the leather of his arm bracers across his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes.

  “I’m here, mea amor. Now concentrate. Let everything you see fill your mind. I want to see what you’re seeing. I need to know where Octavian and his men are. Slowly, kara, slowly.”

  As he tried to calm her with his thoughts, his head filled with images of the market square that surrounded the Saepta Julia. Once a place for Roman citizens to vote, the building had become a market, and an unruly mob filled the square. Octavian was clearly inciting the crowd as he saw an image of the traitor pointing and shouting. The images shifted and he saw three Praetorians at the entrance to the square, then three more at the foot of the platform where Octavian stood. His thoughts pulled away from her, but her terror returned, and he reached out to soothe her.

  “I’m coming, mea amor. Just a few more moments. I promise.” Slowly and gently, he retreated from her thoughts. He looked over his shoulder at Tevy and Titus.

  “There are three of Octavian’s men near the Via Flaminia and three more are with him at the pyre where he’s holding Cassiopeia.”

  “If this crowd is anything to judge by, the soldiers at the Flaminia entrance won’t be able to reach us easily,” Tevy said. Although his friend’s abilities weren’t as strong as his, Maximus knew he could rely on Tevy’s assessment as he focused his abilities on maintaining his connection with Cass.

  “Octavian has put the crowd in the mood for blood.” He jerked his head toward the square. “We must move quickly.”

  Without care for anyone in his way, Maximus began pushing his way through the crowd toward the square. He had just reached the square when he heard Cass scream. He was out of time. Ruthlessly he shoved people aside as he fought his way toward the platform he’d seen in Cass’s thoughts. He’d already used up most of his ability at the river, and he needed to conserve whatever he had left to save Cassiopeia.

  Another shrill scream echoed out over the noise of the crowd. It was one of abject terror, and as his mind connected with hers, he saw what she saw. Horror barreled through him. The image of flames curling among the brush beneath Cassiopeia’s beautiful feet turned him into a madman as he plowed his way up the steps of the platform he’d reached. A Roman soldier stood at the top of the stairway, his sword drawn.

  The soldier was no match for Maximus’s speed and skill. In a blur of movement that reflected the strength of his special ability, Maximus pulled his blade from the scabbard at his side. The blade had barely left the scabbard before it took a diagonal course across the man’s stomach and chest in one fluid stroke. As the man fell, Maximus heard Cassiopeia scream again, and he pushed the man off the stairs into the crowd. No sooner had he stepped onto the platform than another soldier charged at him. He neatly sidestepped the man and sent his blade deep into the man’s chest. As the soldier fell, Maximus saw Octavian calmly observing the square where Cassiopeia was tied to a burning pyre.

  Raw fury strengthened his muscles as he charged forward. A hard, invisible wall stopped him just short of Octavian’s back. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he sank to his knees. Cassiopeia’s screams were louder now, pain drowning out the fear in her cries. Maximus jerked his head in her direction and saw flames snapping at the hem of her gown. He looked up to see Octavian smile cruelly as he drew his sword.

  “It appears you’ve arrived too late, Maximus. As you can see, your pretty wife has been tried and found guilty of heresy. But I’ll do you the kindness of sending you to your death first so you can meet her in Tartarus.”

  “Bastard,” Maximus cried as he lunged forward. The moment he hit the unseen barrier, he drained what was left of his abilities to break through the invisible wall between him and Octavian. With a vicious thrust, he buried his sword in the man’s thigh just below the hipbone then tugged the blade free. Cassiopeia’s screams were now shrieks of agony. He instinctively turned in her direction and failed to see Octavian swing his sword. The first thing he felt was a blow to the head. He staggered backward, the side of his face throbbing. He tried to wipe the blood off his face to see better, only to realize he no longer had an eye.

  LYSANDER flung himself out of the chair with a loud cry. The scarred side of his face hurt like hell. He gently touched the area then looked at his hand, fully expecting to see blood covering his hand. When he didn’t, he breathed a sigh of relief. Il Christi omnipotentia. This dream had been a little too realistic for his taste. He blinked the sleep out of his eye and glanced at the watch on his wrist. Oh-eight-hundred. He groaned as he

  saw the three empty wine bottles on the table. It was just a hangover.

  Last night he’d been miserable as hell, and he’d decided to bury his problems in alcohol. It hadn’t eliminated them. It had just made his head hurt. In fact, his entire body ached like he’d fought half a dozen Praetorians. That’s what he got for sleeping in a chair all night. He grimaced as he pushed himself up out of the seat and rubbed the back of his neck in an effort to ease the stiffness.

  The briefing the day before yesterday had produced nothing new in the way of information, and he’d decided to give the team a breather from the mission. Emma and Atia were still trying to resolve the puzzling inscription on the metal plate they’d found in the Circus Maxentius, and the computer was still processing all the digital images the team had taken of various buildings around the city. Until those two matters were resolved, there was little anyone could do except wait.

  Tension was running high with his secret now common knowledge, and he’d recognized the need for everyone to get used to the idea that he had Praetorian blood running through his veins. It had been at least sixty, maybe seventy, years since a Praetorian had left the Collegium to join the Order of the Sicari and sire children.

  The image of the first leader of the Praetorian Collegium filled his head. Had Phaedra recognized Octavian as Nicostratus? Jaw clenched, he prowled a path between the chair and the doorway of his balcony. What the hell did it mean? It meant nothing. The voice in his head argued fiercely. It was just a dream. The side of his head still throbbed, and he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead in an attempt to ease the pain.

  His head was aching just like he’d had a sword buried in the side of his face. He grimaced. It was the alcohol talking. That’s all. He’d simply been so deep in the events of the dream that he was experiencing the physical sensations that came with the images. His hangover had just made the pain seem real. One hand sliding through his hair, he tried to ignore the tiny voice that was growing louder in his head. He didn’t want to admit it, but the voice grew stronger.

  Maybe Phaedra was right.

  The thought made him release a dark growl. That was crazy thinking. The dreams were just … memories. Christus, he was totally losing it. The only reason he was starting to think like her was because he was looking for a reason to go to her. If only he’d had the courage to tell her the truth from the beginning.

  If he had told her everything, maybe things would be different. They wouldn’t be any different, you stupid fuck. All you did was delay the inevitable. Phaedra’s reaction two nights ago had made it clear that it wouldn’t have mattered whether he’d told her the truth sooner than later. Even in the study when he’d tried to e
xplain … explain?

  What had there been to explain? She’d been right. Omitting the truth was the same thing

  as a lie. But he had good reason for not telling the truth. There was a monster inside of him. It hovered just beneath the surface. If it ever got loose … He shuddered as he remembered the look of fear on Phaedra’s face when he’d gotten angry.