Soldier of Rome: Heir to Rebellion (The Artorian Chronicles) by James Mace

and sorrow evident. He r hands were folded across her chest and Artorius took hold of one and squeezed it gently. It was cool to the touch, but yet there was still a trace of warmth. Artorius lowered his head, his eyes closed, as he fought back his tears. So much regret did he bear.
    “It did not have to end this way,” he said quietly to himself. He looked over at the servant, who immediately lowered her head, her own tears flowing freely. This slave, more a piece of property than a human being, was all that Camilla had left. Artorius removed his hand from Camilla’s, caressed her cheek with the back of his hand and then ran his fingers through her hair.
    “Will Master help me see my lady on to her final journey?” the servant asked, her voice cracking. She looked up at Artorius, her eyes swollen and red. “She never forgot you, sir.” Artorius nodded in reply.
    “I abandoned her once in life,” he said. “I’ll not abandon her now.”
     
    It was dark, the street in front of the mansion lit by a few torches. Artorius slammed the door knocker repeatedly until at last the door opened; a bleary-eyed slave squinting into the torchlight.
    “What business brings you here at this hour, Soldier?” he asked, irritated but knowing his place and maintaining his manners.
    “Fetch your master immediately,” Artorius ordered. The slave swallowed hard, his eyes taking in the sight of the fearsome legionary. Artorius’ face was hard, yet his voice was calm. Unconsciously he clenched his fists, his huge forearm muscles pulsing.
    “Who shall I say is calling?” the slave asked after a short pause. Artorius lowered his head slightly, his darkened eyes boring into the man. The slave swallowed hard and quickly backed into the house, hurrying down the hall. With the way his arms were flailing with limp wrists, Artorius surmised that he must also be one of Marcellus’ playthings. Slowly he paced back and forth in the entryway, clenching his hands, eyes closed and his head lowered. His pain of regret was now consumed by an overriding need to make things right, by any means necessary. Finally he heard the sound of voices coming down the hall, the slave carrying a small lantern as Marcellus in a loose robe walked impatiently towards where Artorius stood waiting.
    “I didn’t order any special entertainments tonight, and besides you know I have no time for those beastly soldiers!” he said in a loud voice. He suddenly stopped short when he laid eyes on the legionary. “Well what have we here? It’s the legendary ‘hero of the Rhine’ himself! That trollop of an ex-wife of mine never could stop talking about you.”
    “It is about your wife that I wish to speak with you,” Artorius replied, his voice still relaxed, though his face emanated pure hatred. Marcellus pretended to not notice and instead walked over to where a servant stood with a goblet of wine, which he immediately consumed.
    “If it’s about the funeral, it’s already taken care of,” he said, not wishing to look at the legionary. “A proper pyre, professional mourners…far more than she ever deserved. I myself will not be attending; pressing business elsewhere. Your father finally made me relent on paying for the ordeal; beastly expensive though it is. He said to do it for Marcia, as if she’ll have any recollection of that woman!” Artorius nodded and appeared to be satisfied. He made as if to leave before turning back to Marcellus, as if he had forgotten something.
    “Just one more thing,” he said, walking over to him. Marcellus turned his nose up at him, as if he were offended by the smell of a common soldier.
    “And that is?” he started to ask as Artorius smashed his fist into Marcellus’ face, every ounce of pure hatred exploding along with the man’s nose with a sickening crunch. Marcellus fell to the ground, screaming at a high pitch. The slave with the lamp panicked and swung the lamp at Artorius, who knocked it away with his left