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She tried to shake off his touch, but he held firm. “Unhand me,” she said loftily.
“In a moment.” He brushed his wet lips over her knuckles.
Repulsed, she yanked free of his hold and wiped the back of her hand on her stola.
Torchlight lent him the feral, yet amused, appearance of a hyena. “When are you going to stop this charade and admit you wish to wed me as much I want you to?”
“I suppose when the River Styx runs dry and Vulcan’s forging fires extinguish.”
His laughter echoed through the domed corridor. “Don’t lie, precious. Everyone knows you’re just waiting until I fall to my knees and beg for your hand.”
“I’ve no doubt everyone and the little wife you keep hidden away in the country would find that most amusing. As for me, I’d think you quite foolish.”
His laughter faded, replaced by an ardent seriousness that caught her off guard. “You know I’d divorce her like this—” he snapped his fingers “—if you’d agree to be my wife.”
“Then your wife has nothing to fear from me.”
His expression soured as he slowly circled her. “You’re off to the Viriathos reception, I imagine.”
“Yes.” Aware that wealthy, yet idle, men like Salonius both revered and despised the gladiators, she hid a smirk at his disgruntled tone and turned to leave.
“Wait.” He held out a scroll as if it were a treat meant for an eager puppy. “I returned from Paestum by way of Neopolis this afternoon. You’ll want to read this.”
“Leave it with Felix. I’ll see to it when I return.”
“No, Drusus has important news. It can’t wait.”
Resigned and conscious of the passing time, she swiped the scroll from his outstretched hand and hurried away before he delayed her further. Outside, she cringed at the late hour. The sun had already set, its red-and-gold streaks fading into a deep purple sky.
A brisk breeze ruffled the curls piled high on her head and flowing over her shoulders as she crossed the columned portico to the litter awaiting her. Titus, her lead guard, drew the transport’s heavy drapes aside. Her gold bracelets jangled as she climbed inside and breathed the scent of cloves her slaves had used to freshen the luxurious cushions. “Let’s be on our way, Titus. Caros will never speak to me again if I don’t show my face soon.”
The litter lurched as four burly slaves lifted the conveyance and prepared for travel. Titus gave orders for her three other guards to take their positions surrounding the group.
The light dimmed as they carried her from her palace’s torch-lit courtyard and into the dark streets of the Palatine Hill. With no lantern to read Drusus’s message, she adjusted the heavy silk of her embroidered stola and reclined against the fringed feather pillows and mountain of furs.
“Gods below, I hate weddings.” Only for Caros could she be swayed within a league of a marriage fete. She despised all reminders of her own marriage. Even now, eleven years later, she remembered the terror and helplessness she’d suffered that hideous day. And worse, later that night when Crassus ordered his guards to beat her for failing him.
A shudder of disgust rippled through her. Her fingers tightened on the scroll and she squeezed her eyes shut, glad the wicked old toad was dead. Reminding herself she was no longer that helpless twelve-year-old girl, but an independent woman in charge of her own life, she pushed the hateful memories to the back of her mind.
As the litter passed deeper into the maze of city streets, the sound of her slaves’ swift steps mingled with the aroma of cook fires and the local inhabitants’ bursts of laughter or occasional arguments.
Pleased by the litter’s quick pace, she willed herself to relax. She’d spent the last several days dreading tonight. Given Caros and Pelonia’s fondness for their Christian slave, Quintus was sure to be in attendance. Her attraction to him was over, she vowed, but the sting of his insults still smarted. With no desire to be further humiliated, she planned to avoid him at all costs.
Twisting one of the long curls flowing over her shoulder, Adiona tamped down her melancholy mood and forced her thoughts back to Caros. The fact that her friend was a Christian amazed her. When Caros confessed his belief in the illegal sect and their crucified God, he’d known she would keep his secret, just as he’d kept various secrets for her over the years. But she had trouble understanding why he’d put his life on the line when all gods were the same, and like most people, not to be trusted.
The litter slowed. She sat up. They couldn’t have arrived already. They’d passed through the city gate and turned onto the lonely stretch of road leading to Caros’s gladiator school mere moments ago. They had at least half a mile left to travel.
“Halt!” a commanding voice ordered.
The litter stopped. She reached for the curtain, annoyed by the delay that might squander the good time they’d made since leaving Palatine Hill. “Domina, stay inside,” Titus warned in a low voice meant for her ears alone. “We’ve met with a band of street rats. There may be trouble and you’re easier to defend if you remain hidden.”
“Let us pass,” another of her guards demanded of the thieves. “We’re guests of the lanista, Caros Viriathos. Cause us no trouble and we may allow you to live.”
Tension sizzled through the night. The sound of ominous footsteps penetrated the thin layers of cloth cocooning her. A twinge of anxiety snaked through the darkness and across the back of her neck. She fought a desire to pull the drape aside and survey the situation, but she knew better than to endanger her men by ignoring Titus’s instructions.
Her grip tightened on the scroll in her hand. She’d chosen her guards with care. All were ex-military men and formidable fighters. Along with the four other slaves carrying the litter, there should be plenty of hands to protect her and defend each other.
“Now!” someone barked. Yelling exploded through the blackness from all sides. Fear ripped through her. She screamed Titus’s name.
“Stay inside, my lady!”
The litter swayed violently, tossing her against the poles supporting the transport’s roof. She felt herself falling just before the litter hit the road with a bone-jarring thud. She fell back, the thick stack of pillows saving her from injury.
Outside, metal clashed against metal. “Kill the woman!” an enemy shouted.
Terror raked through her. She scrambled upright, hobbled by the furs and pillows snatching at her feet.
The clang of weapons grew louder. The number of strangers’ voices outnumbered those of her own men. A sickening death cry erupted beside her. Shaking with fright, she bit back a scream.
Titus stuck his head through the drapes; his blood-spattered face increased her terror. “Domina, hurry! It’s you they mean to have!”
Trembling, she rushed to leave the litter just as someone reached inside from behind and seized hold of her palla. A shriek burst from her throat. She cast off the garment and burst through the drapes onto the shadowed street. Titus’s battered form towered over her. The strong odor of his sweat stung her nostrils. Quick, sideways glances told her they were hemmed in on both sides. Dilapidated buildings loomed behind them.
“Domina,” Titus whispered near her ear. “When I say run, follow the alley behind us. Appius and I will buy time, then follow you. Don’t stop until you reach the school.”
“It’s the woman we want.” One of the attackers stepped forward from the pack. “Give her to us and we may allow you to live.”
Hearing their leader mimic her guard’s earlier threat, the pack of rats skittered with laughter.
Titus shoved her behind him, the sword he held in his free hand raised to fight. “What has the lady done to deserve the dishonor of being assaulted in the street?”
Adiona strained to see through the dark. Her other remaining guard, Appius, stood a few paces forward and to her left. Moonlight glinted off her attackers’ knives and the broken glass vessels they’d fashioned into weapons. The bodies of her men littered the barren road. Bile scratched her throat. Her stomach rolled with sickening shock and horror. Pity for her sorely outnumbered guards rose to choke her. Judging by the number of dead assailants that covered the ground, her men had fought with all their might.
Her teeth chattering uncontrollably, she turned back to back with Titus and located the narrow alley that offered her last hope for escape.
Impatient to finish her off, the rats moved closer by degrees like a tightening noose.
Titus’s muscles flexed against her shoulder blades. “Domina,” he hissed, “Run!”
She hiked her tunic to her knees and raced. Mindless with fear, she sped down the alley without thought of what awaited her at the other end. Shouts raged and weapons clashed. Fast footsteps gained ground behind her, drowning her senses with panic.
She slipped on a wet spot and fell, scraping the fingers wrapped around the scroll. The smell of dust and mildew invaded her nose and gagged her. She shot to her feet. Hands clawed her shoulder and the loose curls tumbling to her waist. Her captor yanked her head back, nearly snapping her neck. She wheeled on the man, wincing from the pain of having her hair torn from her scalp. Her tunic ripped. The night air chilled her shoulders.
She raised the scroll and beat her attacker with the hard wooden knob at the end of the rolled parchment. She kicked with furious intent, catching the rat in the shin, the knee, the groin. He doubled over, shrieking with pain. More footsteps. Yelled profanities and insults shot through the night. The pack continued their chase. Her fingers tightened on the scroll now that she realized it made a decent weapon. Lungs burning from the added exertion, she ran ever harder, her bracelets rattling with each step like a frantic tambourine.
At the end of the alley, she turned right, disheartened to find another desolate road. Terror spurred her onward. The shouts of her assailants grew louder, closer. Her mouth dry, she panted for air, her chest tight and aching. Fatigue threatened to claim her.
Up ahead, torchlight glowed in the distance and began to grow brighter. The school! She ran toward the iron gates and the guards’ darkened silhouettes. Spurred on by the sight, she summoned her second wind and pressed onward.
“I’ve got you, wench!”
Rough hands grabbed her around the neck. Her scream died in the vermin’s tight grasp. She felt herself tumble. Pain exploded down her side where she landed, her face scraped the road’s hard pavers.
The fall dislodged her attacker. She lurched upright, kicking the scum in the stomach, the face. The faint voices of Caros’s men filled her with hope. She bolted toward the shelter in the distance.
With a rush of gratitude, she arrived at the gate. The party’s music drifted on the cool night air. Weak with relief, she closed her eyes and sagged against the bars, pleading for help. Her labored breaths shook her whole body, clanking the scroll’s wooden ends against the cold metal bars in her grasp. “My lady!”
Her heart dropped. No gods, please, not Quintus! Her eyes widened with dread even as they roamed over his tall frame and broad shoulders to ascertain his wounds had healed as well as her steward reported.
“Guard, open the gate!” Quintus ordered. “You, there, fetch your master.”
Why did the Fates toy with her? Of all the men in the ludus, why did he have to be the one to find her scorned and disgraced?
In Rome, no decent woman of rank was attacked in the street. People would blame her, judge her, believe she’d done something to deserve the dishonor. Quintus would be no different. How could he be when her shame supported the abysmal opinion he already held of her?
Hot tears burned her eyes.
The gate rattled open. She crossed into the courtyard and flinched as the heavy metal bars slammed shut behind her. A torch’s flame reflected in Quintus’s intense, unreadable gaze. Raw and exposed beneath his stoic inspection, she lifted her chin.
Her lips quivered as she grappled to maintain the last shreds of her dignity. Like her torn garments, the careful facade she cultivated to protect herself hung in tatters.
“My lady, what happened?”
His deep voice washed over her with a gentleness that unraveled the last of her control. Stripped of her pride, the armor she hid behind, she wished her attackers had caught her and finished her off.
The tears she’d fought spilled down her cheeks in hot rivulets, burning her with humiliation to the depths of her soul. She swiped at the moisture and swung away, furious with her weakness and that he should be the one to witness her shattered state.
She heard Quintus groan behind her. His footsteps crunched on the gravel. Assuming he’d gone to find someone else to deal with the embarrassment of her situation, she wrapped her arms around her middle, her right hand locked around the scroll.
Fear from the attack crowded around her. She heard the clash of weapons, saw the lifeless faces of her men. Eyes shut tight, she covered her mouth with her free palm, desperate to keep her sobs in check lest she fall apart at the seams.
“My lady.” Strong fingers curved around her shoulders. She jerked at the contact, unused to being touched.
Quintus gently turned her toward him and with a sigh of resignation gathered her close. Surrounded by his scent of citrus and leather, she stood there rigid at first, ignorant of how to react because no one had ever held her. Always alone, always lonely, she was used to being abandoned, never cared for or comforted.
He stroked her mangled hair, offering her the solace she was loathe to refuse. The murmur of his deep voice soothed her. Warmed by his tenderness, she melted against him, accepting the first genuine embrace she’d ever known.
Surrounded by the security of Quintus’s arms, she pressed closer against him and wept against his chest. Safety was foreign to her, but his quiet confidence made her believe he was the one man in existence meant to protect her from harm.
Voices drifted across the courtyard from the direction of the house. She stilled as reality invaded the haven she’d found. Suddenly ashamed of the flaw in her that enjoyed the solace offered by a man who thought the worst of her, she stepped back from Quintus, wishing he would leave her to cope with her humiliation and despair on her own. Awash with embarrassment, she made haste to repair her appearance.
Quintus let go of Adiona with reluctance. Clearly she’d been attacked. Suspecting thieves, he struggled to control his anger toward the jackals who hurt her.
The night’s breeze ruffled her glossy black hair. He fisted his hand to control the urge to caress its softness once more. Both dazed and irritated by the sense of completeness he experienced while he held her, he despised the weakness that made it impossible for him to walk away as he ought to. He knew better than to court disaster, but her tears had chained him to the spot. His reason failed to quell his need to console and protect her.
Had he been wiser, he would never have touched her. Now, it was too late. Her scent and the feel of her in his arms were burned into his brain. Never again would he smell cinnamon or enjoy the texture of silk without thinking of Adiona Leonia.
Moonlight bathed her smooth skin with an ethereal glow. Moisture sparkled on the tips of her long lashes like diamond dust. Her beauty tormented him and pushed him to the edge of his endurance. If not for the bruises and scrapes, she might be mistaken for one of the sirens the Greeks believed tempted a man from his senses until he crashed against the rocks.
Lord, please help me keep my wits around this temptress.
“You ought to go inside,” he said in a voice rough and hardly recognizable even to himself. His apology would have to wait. Besides the fact she was in no state to hear him, he was determined to see her safe before his control splintered and he lost his inner battle to return her to his arms. “You’ve been hurt. Your cuts need tending.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Go back to the party without me.”
He’d forgotten about the celebration the moment he saw her clinging to the gate. A quick glance showed the courtyard empty except for a few guards high on the watchtower. “No. I won’t leave you.”
“I want you to go.” She had yet to look at him. “The gossips will roast me alive if I’m caught out here alone with a…a slave.”
A wave of cynicism crashed over him. Here he was, reeling from the ferocity of his need to care for her, while she was embarrassed to be seen with him.
Let that be a lesson to you, fool.
His mouth twisted with self-mockery. He’d thought his pride had suffered every indignity imaginable since his enslavement. Leave it to this haughty, haunting beauty to prove him wrong again.
Although he supposed he should be grateful for the reminder of the chasm that spanned between them, bitterness hardened in his belly like a weight of lead. He was a slave because of his faith, not because of birth or low rank. Before his arrest, he and the widow would have been considered more than a worthy match. “You weren’t embarrassed to be caught with a slave when you clung to me moments ago. Perhaps Alexius is right and you wealthy widows are just selective in how you spend time with slaves.”
Her eyes flared, then narrowed at the veiled insult. Cheeks flushed, her breathing ragged, she transformed from weeping victim to an iron-spined matron of Rome. She thrust her shoulders back and pinned him with a glare so hot that he felt singed. “I’ve had enough of your insults, you ignorant, contemptible…man!”
His chest throbbed where she’d punctuated each word with a solid thump of the scroll she carried. He took hold of the rolled parchment and pried it from her death grip. “Don’t hit me, mistress.”
Her lip curled as she struggled to find a worse name to call him. He almost laughed when he realized she thought labeling him a man was the vilest of slurs. He was far from offended. After months of feeling caged like an animal, it was just what he needed to hear.
“Adiona!” Caros and Pelonia burst into the courtyard. The guard Quintus sent to fetch them trailed in their wake.
Caros pushed past him, his concern for the widow evident in his brusque manner. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
As Adiona explained how she was attacked, Pelonia wrapped her in a fur-lined cloak. Caros snapped orders to his guards to find the widow’s men.
“I’ll go,” Quintus volunteered, eager to put distance between himself and Adiona.
“No, come with us,” Caros said as he ushered the women back toward the main house.
A cheerful melody mingled with the aroma of lemons and smoked oysters, roasted lamb and fresh bread. The laughter and conversation of the guests in the domus’s inner courtyard contrasted sharply with the solemn air surrounding their hosts.
Inside the house, Quintus leaned against the back wall of Caros’s office. The mosaic-tiled floor and expensive dark wood furniture reminded him of his own office before his imprisonment.
Cool evening air blew in through the large arched windows behind the lanista’s formidable desk. A mural of a setting sun dominated one wall. Ornate lanterns lit the space, providing Quintus with a clear view of Adiona on one of the blue cushioned couches across the room.
Pelonia sat down beside her and held the widow’s hand. To Quintus’s surprise, Adiona clutched her hostess’s fingers like a lifeline. As far as he knew the two women were less than friends. The men in his barracks suggested a rivalry existed between them, that Adiona had been jealous when Caros wed the young woman who’d once been his slave.
He looked up to find Caros studying him with a frown. The lanista’s sharp blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, before he turned his attention back to Adiona. “Why do you suppose someone wants to harm you? Was it simply thieves? Or did one of your enemies aim to dishonor you?”
“Dishonor wasn’t their intention.” She clenched her fist. “Some wretch means to murder me.”
Murder her? Every nerve in Quintus’s body went on alert.
“Why?” Caros asked. “What have you done this time?”
