an
almost two thousand-year old man? She was, after all, only nineteen
and despite her studies she couldn't possibly have seen and done
all the things he had in his life as a Roman soldier. As for social
skills and small talk, she clearly lacked those in any time, she
mused wryly. He wasn't much better at it.
How foolish and worthless all the
things in her life would seem to him. Her troubles and worries
would be nothing compared to those he faced. He might live better
than most people in this age, but he had earned it. His incredible
body and his scars told her that.
It made her feel humbled.
Amanda stretched and turned onto her
back, trying to find a comfortable position. Damn hard with a
collar around her neck. How the hell did dogs do it?
There were arches along one wall of
his chamber and these opened onto a portico with tall, white
columns, shown to her in slight glimpses when the light, gauzy
material of his drapes billowed gently in the breeze. She could see
a pool— or a bath as he would call it— and fluttering light from
rush torches set in iron holders. The view stretched on up to a
starlit sky.
Amanda turned her gaze to the chamber
in which she lay. Up there, in the corner of the wall there was a
crack in the plaster, just visible in the flickering light of the
fire. Earlier she'd noticed a mosaic tile missing in his floor.
Now, why would her imagination make up so much tiny,
inconsequential detail?
If this was all in her head, it must
mean that whenever Marcus Cassius left her presence he no longer
existed.
Her heart pinched and she turned her
face into the bed, taking in a great deep lusty breath of his
scent. Yes, it was still there. It was on her skin too.
How could he not be real?
* * * *
Strolling out to the
stable-yard, he stopped to talk with some of his men who gathered
around a brazier, sharing stories of the day's events before they
returned to the barracks. Marcus had never held himself too far
above his soldiers. Unlike some men of superior rank, he never
forgot his beginnings or what he owed to the loyalty and hard-work
of his men, and he made it a point to join in with their
conversation at times, to cheer for them when they were down and cheer with them in times of
victory.
Tonight they spoke of the fight with
the rebels in the forest and just as Marcus walked up to the group
they were discussing the new red-headed slave he'd captured there.
Rumor, as he'd known it would, had traveled swiftly through the
household. When he appeared out of the darkness, they tried to
change the subject, but he laughed and assured them, "You may speak
of the native woman to me. She is just another slave. What do you
know of her?" If they had information about his new acquisition it
could be useful, he thought, for while Marcus felt great curiosity
about the girl he had renamed Axa, he did not yet trust her to
speak truthfully.
One of the soldiers looked down at the
fire and then raised his eyes again.
"Speak, man," Marcus exclaimed,
clapping him on the shoulder. "What do you hear of her?"
Finally the man spoke. "I hear she is
a witch, general."
He paused and then laughed. "A
witch?"
"A Druid witch," said another. "She
has strong powers, general. You must beware, for it rumored that
she let you capture her on purpose."
Marcus scratched his cheek and tried
to laugh again, to put the men at their ease and show he was not
afraid. After all, he didn't believe in witchcraft.
But had the woman cast some sort of
spell over him? He'd acted strangely with her, felt oddly off his
balance when she was near. Added to that, she had also entranced
the governor so that he forgot his usual boring
conversation.
One of the soldiers nudged another.
"Show him," he hissed low.
"Show me what?" Marcus demanded, no
longer laughing.
"We found something, general. In the
forest. Where you brought down the red-head."
"And?" The men looked at him with
fearful eyes and this annoyed Marcus. Had she already
almost two thousand-year old man? She was, after all, only nineteen
and despite her studies she couldn't possibly have seen and done
all the things he had in his life as a Roman soldier. As for social
skills and small talk, she clearly lacked those in any time, she
mused wryly. He wasn't much better at it.
How foolish and worthless all the
things in her life would seem to him. Her troubles and worries
would be nothing compared to those he faced. He might live better
than most people in this age, but he had earned it. His incredible
body and his scars told her that.
It made her feel humbled.
Amanda stretched and turned onto her
back, trying to find a comfortable position. Damn hard with a
collar around her neck. How the hell did dogs do it?
There were arches along one wall of
his chamber and these opened onto a portico with tall, white
columns, shown to her in slight glimpses when the light, gauzy
material of his drapes billowed gently in the breeze. She could see
a pool— or a bath as he would call it— and fluttering light from
rush torches set in iron holders. The view stretched on up to a
starlit sky.
Amanda turned her gaze to the chamber
in which she lay. Up there, in the corner of the wall there was a
crack in the plaster, just visible in the flickering light of the
fire. Earlier she'd noticed a mosaic tile missing in his floor.
Now, why would her imagination make up so much tiny,
inconsequential detail?
If this was all in her head, it must
mean that whenever Marcus Cassius left her presence he no longer
existed.
Her heart pinched and she turned her
face into the bed, taking in a great deep lusty breath of his
scent. Yes, it was still there. It was on her skin too.
How could he not be real?
* * * *
Strolling out to the
stable-yard, he stopped to talk with some of his men who gathered
around a brazier, sharing stories of the day's events before they
returned to the barracks. Marcus had never held himself too far
above his soldiers. Unlike some men of superior rank, he never
forgot his beginnings or what he owed to the loyalty and hard-work
of his men, and he made it a point to join in with their
conversation at times, to cheer for them when they were down and cheer with them in times of
victory.
Tonight they spoke of the fight with
the rebels in the forest and just as Marcus walked up to the group
they were discussing the new red-headed slave he'd captured there.
Rumor, as he'd known it would, had traveled swiftly through the
household. When he appeared out of the darkness, they tried to
change the subject, but he laughed and assured them, "You may speak
of the native woman to me. She is just another slave. What do you
know of her?" If they had information about his new acquisition it
could be useful, he thought, for while Marcus felt great curiosity
about the girl he had renamed Axa, he did not yet trust her to
speak truthfully.
One of the soldiers looked down at the
fire and then raised his eyes again.
"Speak, man," Marcus exclaimed,
clapping him on the shoulder. "What do you hear of her?"
Finally the man spoke. "I hear she is
a witch, general."
He paused and then laughed. "A
witch?"
"A Druid witch," said another. "She
has strong powers, general. You must beware, for it rumored that
she let you capture her on purpose."
Marcus scratched his cheek and tried
to laugh again, to put the men at their ease and show he was not
afraid. After all, he didn't believe in witchcraft.
But had the woman cast some sort of
spell over him? He'd acted strangely with her, felt oddly off his
balance when she was near. Added to that, she had also entranced
the governor so that he forgot his usual boring
conversation.
One of the soldiers nudged another.
"Show him," he hissed low.
"Show me what?" Marcus demanded, no
longer laughing.
"We found something, general. In the
forest. Where you brought down the red-head."
"And?" The men looked at him with
fearful eyes and this annoyed Marcus. Had she already
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