warrior—reduced to a beast of burden.
Perhaps it was Rome’s final jest. The first had come long ago, at the battle of Manduessedum, his queen’s final stand. His family murdered, his tribe erased, he had battled and raged until all strength had departed his body, and all thought his mind. He lay on the battlefield, covered in blood, and the Roman legionaries left him for dead.
But dead he was not. When consciousness returned, Artair took refuge in the forest, where he taught himself to survive. For years he wandered, lost in the wild, his anger festering inside him like a deep wound. Why me? Why keep me alive? he demanded, but the gods of earth and sea gave no answer.
The boy became a man, and the man in due course found himself in the North—in the land of the Brigantes. It did not matter that he was an Iceni, an ancient enemy. Their leader hated Rome as much as Artair did, and vowed to keep the Romans out of the North at any cost. Artair was ready to pay that cost; indeed, he yearned for it. Every day, he instructed the Brigante warriors in the Iceni arts of sword and steed. And every night, he dreamed of vengeance.
But when the Romans finally came, they came not as warriors, but as thieves. They invaded in the night, burning the village, setting the Brigante warriors in shackles before they could even unsheath their swords. Then there was the dark hold of a ship, a slave market south of the Rhine, and, finally, a brick factory owner from Pompeii, who paid well for strong men. “I shall get five years out of you before you die,” he had told Artair, smiling. What would his new domina tell him now, he wondered, with that same wicked Roman smile upon her lips?
They arrived at a crossroads. The women kissed, then the older of the two stepped inside the litter and pulled the curtains shut. In an instant, the entire retinue was gone, and Artair was alone with his new domina.
“Well, then,” she said. “Let us go home.”
She walked quickly, as if trying to outpace the passing of the day. Her black hair was tied in a tall, plaited bun and fastened with two ivory pins that crossed like miniature swords. Rivulets of sweat made their way delicately down her slender neck, sending a pang of unexpected lust through Artair’s bones.
In another life, she would have been mine, he thought. A prize of Artair, great-grandson of Antedios, the last of the great high kings of the Britons. In another life, he would have simply taken her down to the Tiber and enjoyed her on the sand.
But that was not this life, Artair reminded himself. In this life, he was the property of this woman’s husband, surely some corpulent government official who sat on a latrine made of stolen gold.
Artair cringed to think he was now bound to serve such a man—body and soul—for the rest of his life.
Never.
The hill leveled off and they emerged into a small, sparsely populated piazza. In its center, a decorated pillar spouted water into a small concrete pool. The water trickled continuously, as if by magic.
Artair had seen Roman fountains before, but none so grand as this. It was like a spring bubbling up in the middle of a city. He ran his tongue across his parched lips.
“Please, go,” the woman said suddenly, motioning to the fountain. “Neptune awaits you.”
Artair could hardly believe her words, but she nodded vigorously, a playful smile materializing on her crimson lips. “Drink.” When he did not move, she slipped her soft hand into his and gently led him toward the fountain.
Her touch sent a wave of warmth through his body. Were all Roman noblewomen so bold? At the lip of the fountain, she released his hand. “Please, satisfy your thirst.”
And what of my hunger?
Artair glimpsed the curve of her waist as he bent to cup his hands in the small pool. Then he closed his eyes and drank his fill.
When he opened his eyes and stood, she was there, smiling curiously, the low sun casting a rosy glow on her cheeks.
By the gods, she was beautiful.
He forced his gaze to the ground. The cobblestones beneath his feet appeared to throb, and his head pounded. He steadied himself, feeling as a satyr in a Greek play—drunk not on wine and song, but on clear water and sunshine...and an ethereal woman just beyond his grasp.
In truth, he owed his life to her. The mango himself had tagged Artair for the arena, but not for glory. “It will take a heavy coin to keep you from the lions,” he had said with a laugh. And that’s just what she had offered—the largest bag of coins he had ever seen.
He kept his eyes upon the ground. He would have to guard himself from this woman. He could not lose his will to escape. A life spent in bondage was no life at all, he reminded himself, no matter how kind or beautiful the master’s wife.
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