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She straightened her back. “It’s just—”
“It’s just food, I know.” He grabbed her arm. “Food that’s for Romans, not these cursed imbeciles.”
The two visitors had crossed the threshold of the gate, leaving her with the cook and a trio of legionnaires. One of them smirked.
“You’ll pay for this, Bethan.” The soldier dragged her between the other two. “In irons, now.”
“No!” she wailed.
The boys, thankfully, had scarpered. Their little legs carried them quickly and they disappeared amongst the huts.
As the gate slammed shut, trapping her inside the fort, she caught sight of the gladiators, if that was what they were. The young one, his cloak swept back over his shoulder, turned to face her. He stared as she wriggled between the guards.
Now she could see his fine leather breastplate, the moulding around his stomach and the fronds of his battle skirt. He wore breeches to protect him from the cold wind and fur-lined boots.
Bethan flinched as he held her in his steely gaze. A remarkable man with a head of gold and amber, quite like nothing she’d seen before. He held his helmet tucked under his arm, while his other hand rested on his empty scabbard. He pressed his lips together and nodded. A strange combination, as if he wanted to speak, but knew it was not appropriate. Instead, he acknowledged her presence with a small bow of his head.
Gods, he was stunning. A flush of warm blood descended across her breasts and into her belly. From there it moved lower and to the apex of her inner thighs. She might be anxious about her impending punishment yet she still managed to find this warmth within her. And, she felt it for a stranger.
A sturdy hand clamped down on the man’s shoulder and his companion shook him as if to waken him from a slumber; he lost his focus on her.
“Rufus, we’re to dine with him,” the other man said. He’d removed his helmet to reveal a head laden with dark hair bleached at the ends by the sun. He, too, was dressed in the finery of a warrior. From his neck to his calves, he was packed with muscles and they bulged beneath his shirt and cladding. However, although impressive and affecting, she couldn’t keep her eyes off the younger one.
Rufus. A Roman name. She liked it especially as he possessed streaks of red in his hair.
The legionnaire snatched her neck with his callused hand and thrust her head downward. “Behave,” he reprimanded. “You’ll not be smiling like that for much longer.”
Smiling? She’d not been aware of it. But, thinking about it, she had smiled at him. In fact, she’d beamed from ear to ear.
As they forced her to move, she lost sight of the other group of soldiers escorting the visitors. They were heading up to the commander’s house. She was going to the cells where they would shackle her with iron chains. Such was the life of a slave. She’d never get used to it.
Chapter Three
Commander Atticus took the tablet out of Felix’s hand and examined the emperor’s seal. Satisfied with its authenticity, he placed it on a table. Felix didn’t ask what was written in the letter. It wasn’t any of his business.
“How long has it taken you?” the commander asked. Atticus was in command of all the forts along the Roman Wall and ruled the legions of northern Britannia with ruthless efficiency.
“Two months,” replied Felix. They’d left in March after the snows had melted and before the oppressive heat arrived. Britannia wasn’t a hot country like southern Europe. Fucking cold, Rufus had complained on numerous occasions since they’d crossed the sea. After two months of campfires and riding horses, Felix was looking forward to settling down in his new home.
“I was assured that speed was not essential, only that the message was safely delivered,” Felix said.
Atticus pursed his lips. “I suppose the emperor had his reasons for choosing you.” The commander meant ex-gladiators. Felix wondered if it was because they could fend for themselves for the lengthy journey. Or perhaps it was because the emperor didn’t trust his citizens with the task. A gladiator’s loyalty was to prize money and survival, and little else.
“He required me to honour my freedom with one last service. We were chosen as emissaries.” Felix nodded at Rufus, who stood to one side. His junior and one-time protégé, Rufus was a few years younger than he was. Unlike Felix, who originally hailed from Britannia, Rufus was a swarthy Gaul with hazel eyes and thick hair. He’d grown a beard since they’d left the sweltering stench of Rome. Felix scratched the bristles on his chin. He was in need of a shave.
“Your name, Felix Gaius Hercules, is known throughout the Roman Empire. We are honoured by your visitation. Please sit, both of you.” Atticus waved them to the relative comfort of his private chamber and the long couches. A servant laid out food on a table.
Of course, his name was known. Felix had survived many fights in the arena, earning him a reputation across the empire as undef
eatable. He’d trained others to fight, too, including Rufus, who’d volunteered. When Felix had been freed, he’d asked that Rufus should join him. The emperor had agreed, but on the condition he delivered the letter.
“Not many gladiators survive the coliseum,” Atticus remarked. “I only had the pleasure of being there once in my life.” The commander originated from Spain.
Felix dipped a piece of bread in his wine. “I have fought three times in the coliseum. I began my training in a provincial arena. My friend, Rufus, also survived the coliseum on two occasions.”
“Indeed.” Atticus applauded them both. “Remarkable.”
“If you can provide us a night’s accommodation, we will leave early in the morning. The emperor has granted me a villa to the south of Luguvalium.” A small farm with potential, he’d been told by the tax collector in Eboracum when the two men had passed through the town. The potential depended on the goddesses and the seer’s suggestion for pleasing them.
