armed and armored. “Stand down, Braxus. That is an order.”
Braxus turned to face the praetor, some twenty feet away. He scowled and took a step back, but he left his hand on his dagger. Nostrils flaring, the fire in his gut compelled him to fight on. “He has my property, Praetor,” said Braxus, glowering over lowered brows. “I want it back.”
“You others, out,” Marcus ordered. Braxus’s comrades hesitated, and this caused fury to explode behind the general’s eyes, a throbbing sensation emanating from the core of his skull. He gave a curt nod to his guards. The Northmen fell on the bullies and dragged them out of the bathhouse, clubbing them with balled fists. Braxus stood amid the tumult, wary as a jungle cat, fist still clenching his sheathed knife. While the guards were busy with the ruffians in the street, Marcus stepped toward Javad and the charioteer in the suddenly empty bath.
“You know you want to draw your knife,” he said in a low voice. “Do so. I am armed. There will be no dishonor. I would love nothing more than to rid my city of trouble-causing vermin.”
“Ha! The people love me.” Braxus circled about on the balls of his feet as Marcus stalked him.
The praetor rested his fingertips lightly on the pommel of his gladius . “The people? No, the mob loves you. More precisely, they love blood, and you give it to them. Other people’s blood, that is. How about if I gave them your blood right now? Hmm?”
Braxus scoffed. “They would rise up at my murder. Their hero slain by a jealous old man in the middle of the night? Your life would be forfeit.”
“Such conceit,” Marcus said with a sly smile. He savored the taste of the younger man’s hubris as though it were a roasted meat he could roll about in his mouth, sucking out the juices. “I hope I am there the day you die. If I am not the one to slay you, I will envy the man who does.”
Upon intoning that last word the Nordic guard reappeared and flanked their master. “Take him into custody,” he commanded, glowering at Braxus with menace.
The arena champion laughed. “The mayor will release me in the morning, you old failure of a field commander. You accomplish nothing by this. Nothing!” Burly legionaries clamped his wrists in manacles as a red-bearded giant boxed his ear. Braxus was dragged from the bath in silence, his ear ringing.
“And you, Javad.” Marcus sighed, turning to face the cowering slaver. “What am I to do with you?”
“Mercy, Lord, mercy,” the Persian said pitifully. “I still have time by your terms, Lord. My man will return in the morning with the girl.”
“Stop. Just stop,” he spat out impatiently. “This is what is going to happen: In the morning the mayor is going to hear that his pet charioteer is in jail. He will release him forthwith. You will be waiting for him at the gate of the jailhouse. You will refund him all of his gold coin. If your man has not returned by then with the runaway, you will ride with him on the road to meet him on his way back into the city. You see, you will refund his coin, and he will still receive the property. Then you will leave here, and you will never return. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lord. Thank you, Lord.” Javad clasped his hands in thanks and bowed in obeisance.
“If you vary from this plan I will allow Braxus to gut you in the forum in broad daylight,” Marcus said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Do not fail me.”
Chapter Seven
Kell slumbered while her master was away. She drifted in and out of consciousness, the cool night air bathing her body. Nestling her head into a satiny pillow, she drew the sheets over her oiled skin and curled up. Never had she slept on so comfortable a mattress. The stuffing seemed to mold to her weight, and was somehow soft and firm at the same moment. She inhaled deeply and smiled. Marcus’s scent was on her pillow.
She woke from her light sleep to the sound of sandaled feet sliding on the
Braxus turned to face the praetor, some twenty feet away. He scowled and took a step back, but he left his hand on his dagger. Nostrils flaring, the fire in his gut compelled him to fight on. “He has my property, Praetor,” said Braxus, glowering over lowered brows. “I want it back.”
“You others, out,” Marcus ordered. Braxus’s comrades hesitated, and this caused fury to explode behind the general’s eyes, a throbbing sensation emanating from the core of his skull. He gave a curt nod to his guards. The Northmen fell on the bullies and dragged them out of the bathhouse, clubbing them with balled fists. Braxus stood amid the tumult, wary as a jungle cat, fist still clenching his sheathed knife. While the guards were busy with the ruffians in the street, Marcus stepped toward Javad and the charioteer in the suddenly empty bath.
“You know you want to draw your knife,” he said in a low voice. “Do so. I am armed. There will be no dishonor. I would love nothing more than to rid my city of trouble-causing vermin.”
“Ha! The people love me.” Braxus circled about on the balls of his feet as Marcus stalked him.
The praetor rested his fingertips lightly on the pommel of his gladius . “The people? No, the mob loves you. More precisely, they love blood, and you give it to them. Other people’s blood, that is. How about if I gave them your blood right now? Hmm?”
Braxus scoffed. “They would rise up at my murder. Their hero slain by a jealous old man in the middle of the night? Your life would be forfeit.”
“Such conceit,” Marcus said with a sly smile. He savored the taste of the younger man’s hubris as though it were a roasted meat he could roll about in his mouth, sucking out the juices. “I hope I am there the day you die. If I am not the one to slay you, I will envy the man who does.”
Upon intoning that last word the Nordic guard reappeared and flanked their master. “Take him into custody,” he commanded, glowering at Braxus with menace.
The arena champion laughed. “The mayor will release me in the morning, you old failure of a field commander. You accomplish nothing by this. Nothing!” Burly legionaries clamped his wrists in manacles as a red-bearded giant boxed his ear. Braxus was dragged from the bath in silence, his ear ringing.
“And you, Javad.” Marcus sighed, turning to face the cowering slaver. “What am I to do with you?”
“Mercy, Lord, mercy,” the Persian said pitifully. “I still have time by your terms, Lord. My man will return in the morning with the girl.”
“Stop. Just stop,” he spat out impatiently. “This is what is going to happen: In the morning the mayor is going to hear that his pet charioteer is in jail. He will release him forthwith. You will be waiting for him at the gate of the jailhouse. You will refund him all of his gold coin. If your man has not returned by then with the runaway, you will ride with him on the road to meet him on his way back into the city. You see, you will refund his coin, and he will still receive the property. Then you will leave here, and you will never return. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lord. Thank you, Lord.” Javad clasped his hands in thanks and bowed in obeisance.
“If you vary from this plan I will allow Braxus to gut you in the forum in broad daylight,” Marcus said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Do not fail me.”
Chapter Seven
Kell slumbered while her master was away. She drifted in and out of consciousness, the cool night air bathing her body. Nestling her head into a satiny pillow, she drew the sheets over her oiled skin and curled up. Never had she slept on so comfortable a mattress. The stuffing seemed to mold to her weight, and was somehow soft and firm at the same moment. She inhaled deeply and smiled. Marcus’s scent was on her pillow.
She woke from her light sleep to the sound of sandaled feet sliding on the
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