had already begun to writhe in his gut. Fifteen years had passed and he had been unable to avenge her. In twelve years of hauling stones and hewing rock there had been only a single chance for freedom and he had failed to attain it.
That failure had landed him in the arena, where he had been forced to take other men’s lives for the preservation of his own. With each kill, there was less of him. With each bloody blow, the image of his wife’s face faded just a little more.
To take one’s own life was the coward’s way, or so he had been raised to believe. But to succumb to death on one’s own terms—that was something different. He needed only to be brave when the moment came.
And he would. Just like the Roman woman had done when she’d jumped from that treacherous height. He would bare his neck to the blade and let come what may.
He had failed to attain his freedom. He had failed to get his revenge. But by his honour, he was not going to let the Romans win.
He kissed the bundle of hair and placed it beneath his belt. ‘Forgive me, Rhiannon. I am coming home.’
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