landed hard on her heels and staggered, turned and hit the bleeding man in the ear with her clenched fist, the sheer relief of being free of their hands lending her anger force.
The man slapped back wildly at her, knocking her against his friend. Then, as she scrabbled for balance, he grunted abruptly and keeled over to the ground. She stared down at him sprawled at her feet, the hilt of a dagger sticking out of his throat, a thin trickle of blood curling down to his collarbone. Dead. She had not seen the barbarian move. The other man took to his heels, then stopped, cowering, as the wolf padded out of cover in front of him.
The barbarian ignored him, his eyes locking with Julia’s. There was no reassurance there, only the same chilling aura of power she had seen in the wolf’s eyes. He gestured towards the tumbled figure of the slave. ‘They did that?’
Julia nodded dumbly, falling to her knees beside the girl. The barbarian took a long stride past her, she heard the scrape as he drew his sword, then a scream, cut off on a choking sob. A thud. Silence. She kept her head averted, searching with her fingers for a pulse in the girl’s neck. Nothing.
‘Is she dead?’ Julia half turned, saw him stoop to wipe the long blade clean on the fallen tradesman’s tunic and, shuddering, looked away.
‘I think she must be. I can find no pulse. They threw her against the wall when they first caught us. She was so frightened.’ She didn’t want to come with me, poor little thing. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose and Mother sent her out with me into this nightmare and I did nothing to protest. She won’t be frightened any more now…
The Goth hunkered down beside her and she was aware of the size of him, the smell of sweat and blood, metal and leather. Alien, utterly male. He reached out a broad hand and touched the girl’s neck, then, with a gentleness that surprised Julia, closed the staring brown eyes.
‘What is her name?’
‘I do not know what she was called.’ Julia gazed at the small body helplessly. There was a hot burning in her chest, her eyes prickled. I must not cry, I must not show weakness in front of a barbarian, an inferior. ‘She was one of my mother’s slaves. She sent her with me…’
…sent us both on this insane errand. And I did not insist on an escort of male slaves. I just did as I was told while she stayed behind high walls, directing the family treasures to be buried beneath the paving slabs in the peristyle. Mother always knows what her priorities are.
‘I was trying to reach my father and another senator at the Basilica.’ What did Mother expect they could do about it? Stand on the threshold looking pompous in their togas and tell thousands of men like this one, this hunting wolf, to go away and stop being a nuisance?
Two hours ago she had obeyed without question—the men would know best what to do. Her father, Julius Livius Rufus, a man in his Emperor’s confidence for many years; her betrothed, Antonius Justus Celsus, the coming man in the Senate, a man who never put a foot wrong politically, who judged each opportunity with coolness and then acted correctly. Only they had been gone for over twelve hours and had sent no word. What should the women do? There were too many options. To stay or to flee? To hide or to rely on high walls and heavy doors?
The barbarian cut across her thoughts. ‘But she was one of your family.’ He turned, with a litheness that seemed unimpeded by his crouched position, and stared at Julia as though he had trouble understanding what she was saying. His beard was a golden brown, cut close in contrast to the paler hair that escaped from under the metal helmet and flowed over his shoulders. His eyes, intent on hers, were green, the clear green of snow-melt river water over pebbles.
‘She was one of the household,’ Julia corrected. His Latin was good, but obviously not good enough to understand the niceties. She found to her shame that she was trembling and stiffened her limbs. To show fear, to lose her dignity—what she had left of it—was unacceptable. ‘A slave.’
‘Your responsibility, then.’ The green eyes chilled. He stood up, dismissing her with the turn of his shoulder, scooped the girl’s body up as though she were a child and walked into the burning building.
‘Stop! It is on fire!’ It was a foolish statement of the obvious and he ignored her. Julia scrambled to her feet, aghast. Another beam crashed down inside the shop, which was burning fiercely now. She ran forward and saw him, in a nimbus of flame, lay the girl down on what must have been a stone counter. He smoothed down her tunic, crossed her hands over her breast and touched her head. Julia thought his lips moved. Then he swung round and strode out of the building just as the roof collapsed with a roar of uprushing flame and sparks.
‘Better than leaving her in the dust for the dogs,’ he said curtly, pulling Julia further up the alleyway and around a corner. It was blissfully cool there, in the shade, away from the flames and out of sight of the two sprawled bodies.
‘The fire will spread,’ she said, wishing she could uncurl her fingers from around his forearm and finding she could not.
‘But not this way, the wind is against it.’ His head was up, his nostrils flared as though scenting the breeze. A hunter, aware.
She made herself release her grip and looked up. ‘Look out!’ A large lump of smouldering wood, as big as her fist, had lodged on his shoulder and was sliding down onto the bare skin of his upper arm. She reached out and knocked it aside, feeling the sharp sting of the burn on her palm, the tight muscle, the warmth of his arm.
‘Thank you.’ He caught her hand and turned it palm up, studying it. ‘That will stop stinging in a minute. What is your name?’
‘Julia Livia Rufa.’ He did not appear ready to release her hand; tugging was undignified and might display fear. ‘I am the daughter of the Senator Julius Livius Rufus. What is your name?’
‘Wulfric, son of Athanagild, son of Thorismund.’ He said it without emphasis, yet she was left with the clear impression that his name was known amongst his people, that he was used to command and to recognition. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘You would say King of the Wolves, perhaps.’ For the first time, searching for a translation, his Latin seemed less assured, the alien rhythms of his own language surfacing.
Wolf King? What else, she thought, sensing her own desire to laugh hysterically, and biting it back with hard-won discipline. ‘Thank you, Wulfric, son of Athan…Athanagild.’ Julia managed to get over the cumbersome syllables. ‘I would be grateful if you could escort me to the Basilica where I hope to find my father. Naturally, we will not be ungrateful for your assistance.’
The wolf padded back down the alley from wherever it had been exploring and sat down beside its master, tongue lolling in the heat. Two pairs of green eyes regarded her; she could have sworn there was amusement in both.
‘So, you would be grateful for my escort, would you, Julia?’
‘Julia Livia,’ she corrected. He was a barbarian, she could not expect him to understand how to address the daughter of a patrician Roman family correctly.
Now Wulfric was openly amused. His beard was clipped close enough for her to see the lines of his mouth, which just now were curling unmistakeably. ‘How grateful, Julia?’
‘I am sure they will reward you suitably with gold,’ she said stiffly. ‘My family, that is, and also my betrothed, the Senator Antonius Justus Celsus.’
‘But I can take all the gold I want,’ he said softly. ‘I can take anything I desire from this city. Why do you think we are here, if not for the
