Книга - The Gladiator

The Gladiator
Carla Capshaw


Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesHe won his fame– his freedom–in the gory pits of Rome's Colosseum.Yet the greatest challenge for once-legendary gladiator Caros Viriathos comes to him through a slave. His slave, the beautiful mysterious Pelonia Valeria. Her secret brings danger to his household but offers Caros a love like he's never known. . . .Should anyone learn she is a Christian, Pelonia will be executed. Her faith threatens not only herself, but her master. Can she convince a man who found fame through unforgiving brutality to show mercy? when she's ultimately given the choice, will Pelonia choose freedom or the love of a gladiator?









He’d come to save her.


Caros pulled Pelonia into his arms. “Are you all right?” She buried her cheek against his chest.

He held her while she shivered and trembled. For timeless moments, he rubbed her back until the tremors subsided.

Caros cupped her face and tipped her head back to search for injuries. He ran the pad of his thumb over the shallow cut on her throat. Thankfully, the wound no longer bled. The image of a blade held so close to her jugular would never leave him.

He angled the torch for a better view of her ashen face. “It’s over now. They won’t find us. Can you walk or shall I carry you home?”

“Home?” Her eyes filled with fat tears. “I have no home.”

Caros tugged her against him again, holding her close while she sobbed. A promise to free her and help find her family sprang to the tip of his tongue.

No. His arms tightened around her. She was his. He couldn’t let her go….




CARLA CAPSHAW


Florida native Carla Capshaw is a preacher’s kid who grew up grateful for her Christian home and loving family. Always dreaming of being a writer and world traveler, she followed her wanderlust around the globe, including a year spent in the People’s Republic of China, before beginning work on her first novel.

A two-time RWA Golden Heart Award winner, Carla loves passionate stories with compelling, nearly impossible conflicts. She’s found Inspirational Historical Romance is the perfect vehicle to combine lush settings, vivid characters and a Christian worldview. Currently at work on her next manuscript for Steeple Hill Love Inspired Historical, she still lives in Florida, but is always planning her next trip…and plotting her next story.

Carla loves to hear from readers. To contact her, visit www.carlacapshaw.com, or write to Carla@carlacapshaw.com.




Carla Capshaw

The Gladiator















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called

according to His purpose.

—Romans 8:28


Dedicated to:



My son, Deverell—my best blessing.



My parents, for their constant love and

encouragement.



My sister, Nikki. A talented, savvy woman-of-all-

trades. You’re the best friend a girl could have.



My critique partners, Sheila Raye,

Paisley Kirkpatrick, Stacey Kayne and Jean Mason.

What would I do without you? Thank you for

not only reading my stuff, but for being amazing

friends who also happen to be awesome writers.



My agent, Michelle Grajkowski of Three Seas

Literary, for believing in me even when I insisted

on writing “unpopular” time periods.



My editor, Melissa Endlich, for taking a chance on

a new author. Your patience with this newbie won’t

be forgotten.



And last, but most, thank you, Lord. You never fail

me. Your inspiration is endless.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Questions for Discussion




Chapter One


Less than a day’s journey from Rome, 81 AD

“Look around you, Niece. The gods are punishing you.”

Pelonia raised tear-swollen eyes from her beloved father’s lifeless face. From where she sat on the ground, her uncle Marcus towered over her, his mouth twisted in a snarl of contempt. Blood oozed from a gash at his temple.

Dazed by his cruel words, she watched him limp toward the torched wagons and pillaged tents of their once wealthy camp. Black smoke stretched toward the heavens. Its sharp stench singed her nostrils, burning her lungs until the fetid air promised to choke her.

Her father’s head in her lap, Pelonia stroked his weathered cheek with trembling fingers. Was Uncle Marcus right? Was she being punished? Had her father been wrong to reject the old ways and teach his household to embrace the Christ?

Everywhere she looked, destruction sweltered in the morning’s rising heat. All of her family’s accompanying servants lay massacred along both sides of the stone-paved road. Only she and Marcus survived.

Pelonia looked toward the cloudless sky. Birds of prey circled overhead. Their hungry cries echoed in the stillness, mocking her as though they sensed she would join the corpses before she had time to bury them.

On the horizon, a cloud of dust marked the direction of their attackers’ retreat. The marauders had struck before first light. She’d heard their battle cry from downstream where she’d sneaked away to bathe in private. By the time she ran back to camp, they’d taken flight. The demon’s spawn had stolen everything of value—animals, spices meant as a gift for her cousin’s wedding in Rome, and chests packed with rare purple cloth.

Worst of all, they’d murdered her father.

A wail of anguish rose in her throat, but she bit her lip to keep from surrendering to her grief. Her father would want her to be strong. She couldn’t bear to disappoint him. Instead, she bent over his precious body and buried her face in his tunic, begging her Lord to restore his life, just as He had once done for Lazarus.

Long moments passed. No miracle came from heaven, only silence.

She sat up and brushed the graying hair from his brow. Bowing her head, she rocked gently, clinging to her composure when pain threatened her sanity.

God, oh God, her heart cried out. How could You allow this? Why have You forsaken me when I have served You from my earliest days?

Her uncle’s hulking shadow loomed above her. “Hurry up, girl. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Pelonia’s head snapped up. “We can’t leave our dead exposed! Already the vultures circle above us. Soon the wolves will come. Will you have our loved ones ravaged by both fowl and beast?”

Marcus kicked a rock with his sandaled foot. “I care not. I didn’t pretend death and elude our attackers to die of thirst in this glaring heat.”

“You pretended death? How could you not aid my father or defend—”

“Cease,” he growled so close to her nose his stale breath made her shudder. “Someone knocked me unconscious. When I awoke…Why should I have sacrificed my life for nothing?”

“Because it is your duty to defend your family. And to see the dead properly cared for.”

“Don’t lecture me, girl!” Color ran high across his cheekbones. “I won’t suffer your guilt when all but your father have traveled to Paradise. They won’t know if their flesh is left to rot, nor will they care.”

Pelonia adjusted her father’s tunic, wishing she had clean linen to shroud him and the others before placing them in the ground. “Father’s spirit is in heaven, Uncle, as are the rest of those who’ve died here.”

“Then their bodies are of no consequence.” His upper lip curled with ill-concealed scorn. “According to your religion, your God will give them new ones.”

Pelonia winced. Marcus clung to his pagan beliefs, despite her father’s years of prayer and good example. She lifted her gaze and squinted at the sun glinting over his shoulder. “How can you be so cruel? Except for me, Father was your last remaining kin.”

His hawkish eyes narrowed. “Pelonius is dead, but I continue to breathe. Soon scavengers will see the smoke. We won’t be safe once they come to investigate. Unless you wish to join these unfortunate wretches, we must leave now.”

“No!” She eased her father’s head to the damp earth and stood, bristling with defiance. “I won’t abandon him or our servants. It’s indecent and disrespectful. I won’t do it.”

His hand jerked up to strike her, but she didn’t flinch. Jaw flexing with unconcealed rage, he dropped his fist back to his side.

As though he couldn’t bear the sight of her, Marcus glanced to a point down the road. Her instincts warned her to look, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off her uncle. He’d proven on many occasions to be as crafty as the Evil One himself.

After a long moment, his mood shifted and much of his hostility seemed to evaporate. He gave her an odd smile. “Then you’re a fool, but I’ll help you bury them.”

Surprised by his capitulation, she swayed on her feet, light-headed with relief. She glanced down the cypress-lined road. A single horse and rider traveled in their direction, but remained at a distance. He didn’t look threatening, but wariness pricked her, instilling a new need for haste. She hoped the newcomer proved to be a friend, but after the events of the morning, strangers weren’t to be trusted.

Her attention returned to Marcus. “Thank you, Uncle. I couldn’t finish this sad task without you.”

He grunted. “You speak the truth for certain. You’re even smaller than your mother, and she was tiny as a fawn.”

“I wish I’d known her.” Pelonia hurried toward the charred remains of their camp. Her mother had died giving birth to her seventeen winters past. With her father taken from her, she was an orphan. The thought penetrated her mind like the point of a sword. Her head ached. Loneliness crushed her. She and her father had always been close. He’d treated her as well as any might treat a favored son, let alone a daughter.

Her steps slowed near a destroyed tent. Using a tree branch, she poked through the smoldering ruins, searching for anything that might aid with the burials.

Finally, she found the iron head of a spade, its wooden handle nothing but ashes among the scorched stones and broken shards of pottery. With the end of the branch, she pushed the tool from the embers.

Once the metal cooled enough to touch, she picked it up and headed to the shade of an olive tree. She knelt and began to dig, breathing in the pungent aroma of rich, black earth. Here she would bury her father, her dearest friend and protector. Her chest constricted with the thought of leaving him all alone along this barren stretch of road. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, despite her best efforts to contain them.

She licked the salty moisture from her lips and dabbed her eyes with the back of her hands. Knees sore, her lower back aching, she finished the shallow grave at last and returned to her father’s body. She grasped him under his arms. He was so heavy. Her muscles strained to drag him toward the tree and place him in the grave.

As she straightened his limbs, she thanked God for blessing her with a loving parent, even as she questioned why he’d been ripped from her so brutally.

She caressed his cheek one last time, then tore away the cleanest piece of her tunic’s hem. Covering his face with the linen, she choked back sobs. Her entire body shook with sorrow as she placed the dirt over his remains.

“Pelonia, are you not yet finished?”

She patted down the last handful of soil. “Yes, Uncle, I’m done.”

Not far away, Marcus waited beside a shallow grave he’d dug with a second, larger shovelhead. She covered the short distance and joined him. “I’ll try to be quicker and be of more help. Perhaps if you dig, I can move the bodies and cover them.”

The jingle of metal and distant voices carried on the morning breeze. She glanced down the road, brushing her dark hair from her eyes to get a better view. Much closer than before, but still at a distance, the rider continued his path toward them. A large caravan followed several paces in his wake.

From her vantage point, she saw the wagons were too close for comfort. Some covered, some exposed, many were rolling cages filled with people or exotic beasts. Near-naked men, most bound in chains, walked listlessly in the glaring sun.

“A slave caravan, Uncle! We must hide until it passes.”

“They won’t pester me. I’m too old to be of value and my tunic verifies my rank. You, on the other hand, are a prize.”

Pelonia blinked in disbelief. Her heart throbbed with fear. She knew slave traders legally bought and sold men, women and children at markets throughout the empire. Ravenous for profit, they often preyed on the weak, prowling the byways in search of free stock.

The morning’s events had made her one of the weak. She was the daughter of a prosperous Roman citizen, but this far from home she held no proof of her status. None of her wealth remained to buy protection. Her household had been destroyed. Even her luxurious clothes had been stolen or burned, leaving her with nothing but the simple linen tunic she’d worn to the river.

The feral gleam in her uncle’s eyes spread a chill across her skin. “You cannot mean to sell me.”

“Why not? You’re cursed. I have no wish to invoke the gods’ displeasure by protecting you. Besides, I’m your guardian now that your father is gone. I have a legal right to do with you as I wish. After the robbery this morning, I need funds to see me home. You’re a comely maiden and will fetch a fair price.”

“You’re mad!” She darted away, panic pumping through her veins.

His fingers curled around her long hair. He yanked her back, almost snapping her neck and ripping out some of the strands.

His thick arm banded about her throat, pressing the back of her head against his shoulder and exerting enough pressure for her to hold still or choke. “The gods have sealed your fate, Pelonia. I knew it the moment I saw the scout riding this way. I only had to keep you here until he came close enough to claim you.”

Terror exploded in her chest. She kicked and twisted, realizing she should have suspected treachery when he agreed to help her bury the dead. Reaching above and behind her, she clawed at his face. Warm blood tainted her fingers. She bit his arm.

Marcus howled and let go. She ran, but he grabbed her elbow and spun her to face him, striking her hard across the side of the head. Her ears rang. Her jaw stung with pain.

Another blow. White specks of light burst behind her eyes. She tasted blood. He backhanded her left cheek. She fell to the ground, jarring her bones. The back of her head bounced against a rock. Agony lanced through her skull. Marcus’s enraged countenance blurred above her. The edges of her vision dimmed, began to turn black.

“Please, Lord, help me,” she whispered, just before the life she’d known ceased to exist.



As the orange glow of early evening settled over Rome, Caros Viriathos stood at the arched second story window of his bedchamber. His battle-scarred fingers stroked the smooth head of his pet tiger.

Torches lit the large walled yard below where a dozen of his best gladiators trained with a variety of weapons, perfecting their skills with each other and several wild animals.

While Caros listened to the clang of clashing metal and the roar of angry lions, his gaze traveled from one pair of opponents to another. He studied each fighter’s footwork, his speed, every sword thrust and jab of a trident. At sunrise, he would speak with each man in private, point out his flaws and demand perfection. Death might be inevitable, but it could be postponed. And sending men into the arena untrained was a waste of life and capital.

He knew from experience. For ten brutal years, he’d fought in the games, a slave ripped from his Iberian home and forced to serve a cruel master. As an unrivaled champion, he’d won the mob’s fickle affections. They rewarded him three years ago by demanding his freedom as the prize of a particularly bloody competition. Since then, he’d begun his own training grounds, the Ludus Maximus, and amassed a fortune. Even his former master acknowledged no one prepared gladiators more suited for combat than he.

He should have been pleased with his life, or at least his comfortable situation, but deep inside, he yearned for peace.

By day, his work kept him occupied, his mind focused on the task of teaching his men the art of battle. But it would soon be dark and the silence of night allowed the Furies to torment him for his past.

Fists clenched, Caros leaned against the marble windowsill. The aroma of roasting meats signaled the dinner hour. His men had finished training for the day. Their teasing gibes and easy laughter replaced the clash of weapons as they disappeared into the cookhouse. After the evening meal, they’d seek out their beds in the barracks, exhausted and ready for slumber.

Wishing his sleep came as easily, Caros had given up hope of ever winning the battle that waged in his head. For years, he’d fought the riot inside him, arguing with his conscience that he’d been forced to kill in the ring or be killed. He’d sampled every diversion Rome offered in an effort to distract him from the guilt gnawing at his soul. Nothing soothed him. Everything he’d tried proved empty until he had more and more difficulty suppressing the cries of all those he’d slain.

The tiger’s tail swished on the mosaic-tiled floor, the only sound in the evening’s stillness. Footsteps approached in the corridor, drawing his attention and a low growl from Cat.

A fist pounded on the door. “Master,” Gaius, his elderly steward, called through the heavy wooden portal, “a slave caravan has arrived. There are a few good prospects. Do you wish to have a look?”

Eager for a distraction from his thoughts, Caros left his post at the window. He’d lost four men in the ring the day before and needed to replace them. “I’ll be down in a moment, Gaius. Tell them to wait.”

Caros pulled on a fresh tunic and reached for a weighty bag of coins on his desk. Moments later, he joined Gaius in one of the long side yards that ran the length of the house. The stench of animal dung and unwashed bodies made him grimace.

The slave trader, a stout man, paced the straw-covered stones next to a swaying elephant.

In the torchlight, the newcomer came to an abrupt halt when he noticed Caros approaching. He flashed his rotten teeth and his eyes sparkled with the thrill of a probable sale. He stepped forward, sweeping his stubby arms wide to prove he carried no weapons.

“Sir, I am Aulus Menus. You are known as the Bone Grinder, no? It is an honor to meet you.” The slave trader bent at the waist in a flamboyant bow. “I saw you fight once four years ago. You took down five gladiators without a single wound to yourself. I can still hear the crowd chanting your name. It is easy to understand why your reputation as Rome’s greatest champion is hailed far and wide.”

“I’m sure you exaggerate.” Unimpressed by the trader’s flattery or the odor wafting from his person, Caros hoped the man visited one of the city’s baths at the first opportunity.

“I assure you I don’t exaggerate. I’ve heard your name praised as far as Alexandria. Some even hint you’re a son of Jupiter. They whisper your name in hallowed tones and—”

“Enough. If you seek to gain my favor with compliments, be warned, you will not. I’m in need of four able-bodied men, no more. The taller, stronger and healthier the better.”

“No more than four?” Some of the gleam left the slave trader’s eyes. “I have thirty such men.”

Caros looked toward the row of ragged beggars on offer. Sitting in the dirt, most appeared too weak to stand. Others sat beside them, skinny, dejected, already defeated. A few slightly stronger ones leaned against the wall. None of them would do. “Are you trying to swindle me? I need men for gladiators, not lion fodder.”

In the torchlight, Aulus’s face grew red, as though he sensed a hefty profit slipping through his fingers. “This is not my best merchandise. Follow me and I’ll show you a host of potential champions.”

Unconvinced, Caros nodded and followed anyway. Aulus carried a torch as they walked past the wheeled cages filled with reeking animals and all manner of degraded humanity. The sight of dirty, hollow-eyed children clenched his stomach. A youth sitting beside them reminded him of his own capture and sale into slavery. His loving mother and sisters had been tortured that day, then crucified while he was forced to watch.

Caros pushed the nightmare away. Resigned to the ways of the world, he hardened his heart and continued after Aulus.

“Here we are.” The trader halted beside a wagon. He held up the torch, giving Caros a better view into the small prison where a score of men stood packed like fish in a net.

With a practiced eye, Caros considered them. Swathed in loincloths, all were healthier than the wretches in the first lot, but only two or three had the makings of a fighter.

“I told you, no?” Aulus flashed a confident grin. “Any one of these men could be your next champion.”

Caros snorted. “How many champions have you trained?”

Aulus’s smile faded. “None, but—”

“Then let me be the judge.” He pointed to the three best men. “I’ll take them if you offer a decent price. Otherwise be on your way.”

“Seven hundred denarii each,” the trader said without a blink.

Caros laughed. “You are a swindler, Aulus. These slaves aren’t worth two hundred. You’ll have to do better.”

“Five hundred, then.”

“Two-fifty.”

“Four-fifty.”

“Two-sixty,” he said, enjoying the barter and the slave trader’s increasing dismay.

Aulus glanced at his wares, obviously weighing his costs. “Four hundred.”

Caros walked away. Several wagons ahead, he saw Gaius inspecting a pair of giraffes.

“Wait!” Aulus sounded pained. “You didn’t let me finish.”

With a glance over his shoulder, Caros raised a brow and waited for the price.

“Three-fifty.”

He sensed the other man’s defeat. “Two-seventy.”

“Three hundred,” Aulus said in disgust. “My final offer.”

“Done.” Caros returned to the beaten man and opened the pouch he held. Coins clinked into the trader’s outstretched palm as he counted out the correct sum.

While they waited for the new slaves to be released from the cage and led around to the barracks at the back of the house, Aulus counted the coins for a second time. Satisfied, he dumped them into his own drawstring pouch as they started back to the house’s side door.

“That’s only three men, Bone Grinder. You said you need four. If you won’t purchase the men or children I have on offer, would you consider a wench?”

“We have enough women to meet our needs.”

“I have one you could train for the ring,” the trader persisted. “The mob loves a woman who can draw blood. They’ll froth at the mouth when they learn she’s a Christian as well as a maiden. I can see it now—”

“How do you know she’s pure?” Caros interrupted, impatient. “Have you touched her?”

“Her uncle made the claim, and she’s remained unsullied while in my possession.”

“Her uncle?” A frown pinched Caros’s brows. “Her own kin sold her?”

The slave trader shrugged. “It happens often.”

“Were they starving?”

“Far from it. On a better day, I imagine the old man is quite rich.”

“How can you believe a swine who would sell his own family?” Caros asked, the question tinged with disgust.

“He swore it by the gods.”

“And why should I believe you?”

Aulus laughed. “Do you think I would lie to you when you could crush me like an acorn? Besides, why would I allow anyone to touch her and ruin a chance for greater profits?”

“Because you’re a swindler.”

Aulus didn’t deny the charge. A grin spread across his lips. He stopped beside an open wagon where three piteous women sat chained to the sideboards. He lifted his torch, pointing to a fourth female stretched out on the floor.

Caros’s gaze flicked over the sleeping girl. Purple bruises marred her small face. Long dark hair fanned out around her head, shining in the torchlight. “You intend to pawn this child off as a woman I can train for the ring?”

“I assure you she’s no child.”

“Why was she beaten? I’ve no need for a troublesome wench.”

“My scout said she disagreed with her uncle’s plans to sell her and the fellow disciplined her for it.”

“When?”

“Earlier this morning.”

“She hasn’t woken?”

“Once, not long after midday.” Aulus waved a fly from the tip of his nose. “She’ll come to, but there’s a nasty bump on the back of her head.”

Intent on the girl, Caros’s heart beat with an unfamiliar pang of compassion. Having been the recipient of the emotion so little himself, he’d almost forgotten it existed.

“I planned to sell her to a brothel, but since she’s a Christian, I’m weighing my options.” A wicked gleam sparked in the trader’s eyes. “I was told the authorities will pay…three thousand denarii for such criminals.”

His eyes narrowed on the slave trader. The claim wasn’t true. The authorities might send her to the arena if she didn’t deny her illegal sect, but they wouldn’t pay for the privilege. He knew what the other man was up to. Aulus thought he had designs on the girl’s virtue and would pay any price to have her. “I’ll give you fifteen hundred for her.”

Aulus laughed. “Oh, no, you won’t cheat me this time. I’ll take three thousand, nothing less.”

“I cheat you? It will cost me a fortune to fatten up those wretches you sold me. Fifteen hundred is an expected price for any female slave.”

“Ha! This isn’t just any female. Virtue is rare these days. Three thousand, nothing less.”

“Seventeen hundred.”

“Three thousand is my final offer, Bone Grinder. Take it or leave it, it matters not to me. I’ll have my profit from you or the authorities. Either way, she’ll end up in the ring.”

The girl moaned, drawing a concerned glance from Caros. A voice in his head warned him not to let her go. “You know the authorities will pay you nothing.”

“Perhaps.” A triumphant smile tugged at the trader’s lips as though he sensed Caros weakening. “If they won’t, a brothel will. There are few uses for a woman, but something tells me I’m bound to make a profit off this one.”

His pride chafing, Caros realized he’d fallen into the weasel’s trap. If he paid the three thousand denarii, Aulus would walk away with the exorbitant amount he’d originally demanded for the slaves and a healthy profit from the girl.

After another glance at the pitiful creature in the wagon, he didn’t even mind being bested. Why her plight touched him when he was surrounded by a sea of human tragedy confounded him, but he had to have her.

Calling for Gaius, he gave him instructions to fetch the necessary funds. Once Gaius ran to carry out the order, Caros took the torch from Aulus and returned to the wagon. Chains rattled as the other three women tried to scatter from his presence, but he ignored them. His newest slave consumed his concern.

He reached over the wagon’s side and caressed the girl’s flowing dark hair before examining the egg-sized bump on the back of her skull. With great care, he lifted one of her hands in his, noticing the fine bones and the soil caked under her fingernails.

“Master?” Gaius said, out of breath when he returned with a large bag of coins. “Shall I tell Lucia to prepare a mat for the new slave?”

The slave’s hand still in his grasp, Caros nodded. “Tell her to fix one of her herbal concoctions as well. When the girl awakes, she’s going to need relief from her pain.”

As soon as his steward walked away, Caros heard Aulus’s knowing laughter erupt behind him. “You’re already besotted with the wench, no? I wonder what she’ll think of you when she learns the number of Christians you’ve slain.”




Chapter Two


Angry, unfamiliar voices penetrated Pelonia’s awareness. Floating between wakefulness and darkness, she couldn’t budge her heavy limbs. Every muscle ached. A sharp pain drummed against her skull.

The voices died away, then a woman’s words broke through the haze. “She wakes. Fetch the master.”

Hurried footsteps trailed away, while someone moved close enough for Pelonia to sense a presence kneel beside her.

“My name is Lucia. Can you hear me?” The woman pressed a cup of water to Pelonia’s cracked lips. “What shall I call you?”

Pelonia coughed and sputtered as the cool liquid trickled down her arid throat. Swallowing, she grimaced at the throbbing pressure in her jaw. “Pel…Pelonia.”

“Do you remember what happened to you? You were struck on the head and injured. You have bruised ribs. From the swelling, one or more may be cracked, but I believe none are broken. I’ve been giving you opium to soothe you, but you’re far from recovered.”

Her eyelids too heavy to open, Pelonia licked her chapped lips, hating the rotten taste in her mouth. Uncomfortable heat warmed the right side of her face.

Gradually, her mind began to make sense of her surroundings. The warmth must be sunshine because the scent of wood smoke hung in the air, yet she heard no crackle of a fire. Her pallet was a coarse blanket on the hard ground. Vermin crawled in her hair, making her itch. Dirt clung to her skin and each of her sore muscles longed for the tufted softness of her bed at home.

Home.

Her muddled brain latched on to the word. Where was she if not in the comfort of her father’s Umbrian villa? Where was her maid, Helen? Who was this woman Lucia? She couldn’t remember.

Icy fingers of fear gripped her heart as one by one her memories returned. First the attack, then her father’s murder. Raw grief squeezed her chest.

Confusion surrounded her. Where was her uncle? She remembered the slave caravan, his threat to sell her, but nothing more. Had Marcus succeeded in his treachery, or had someone come to her aid?

Panic forced her eyes open. Light stabbed her head like a dagger. She squeezed her lids tight, then blinked rapidly until she managed to focus on the young woman’s face above her.

“The master will be here soon.” A smile tilted Lucia’s thin lips, but didn’t touch her honey-brown eyes. “He commanded me to call for him the moment you woke.”

“Where…am I?” The words grated in her throat.

“You’re in the home of Caros Viriathos.”

The name meant nothing to Pelonia. She prayed God had heard her plea and delivered her into the hands of a kind man, someone willing to help her contact her cousin Tiberia.

The thought of Tiberia brought a glimmer of hope. Somehow, she must contact her cousin at the first opportunity.

Her eyes closed with fatigue. “How…how long have I…been here?”

Lucia laid her calloused palm to Pelonia’s brow. “Four days and this morning. You’ve been in and out of sleep, but now it seems your fever has broken for good. I’ll order you a bowl of broth. You should eat to bolster your strength.”

Her stomach churned. Four days and she remembered nothing. Tiberia must be frantic wondering why she’d failed to attend the wedding.

As children, she and her cousin had been as close as sisters. They’d corresponded regularly and maintained their deep friendship ever since Tiberia’s family moved to Rome eight years past. When Tiberia wrote of her betrothal to a senator, that the union was a love match, no one had been more pleased for her than Pelonia.

She opened her eyes. “I must—”

Lucia placed her fingers over Pelonia’s lips. “Don’t speak. Rest is what you need. Now that you’ve woken, Gaius, our master’s steward, says you have one week to recover. Then your labor begins whether you’re well or not.”

“My cousin. I must.

“You don’t understand, Pelonia.” Lucia hooked a lock of pitch-black hair behind her ear. “You’re a slave in the Ludus Maximus now. A possession of the lanista, Caros Viriathos.”

Lanista? A vile gladiator trainer?

“You have no family beyond these walls. You’d do well to accept your fate. Forget your past existence. Your new life here has begun.”

“No!” She refused to believe all she knew could be stolen from her so easily.

Lucia frowned as though she were confronting a quarrelsome child. Tight-lipped, she crossed her arms over her buxom chest. “We will see.”

Heavy footsteps crunched on the rushes strewn across the floor. The new arrival stopped out of Pelonia’s view, but the force of the person’s presence invaded the room.

The nauseating ache in her head increased without mercy. What had she done to make God despise her?

Focusing on Lucia, she saw the young woman’s face light with pleasure.

“Master,” Lucia greeted, jumping to her feet. “The new slave is finally awake. She calls herself Pelonia. She’s weak and the medicine I gave her has run its course.”

“Then give her more if she needs it.”

The man’s deep voice poured over Pelonia like the soothing water of a bath. Despite her indignation, some of her tension eased. Curious to see the man who had such a unique and unwelcome effect on her, she turned her head, ignoring the jab of pain that pierced her skull.

“Don’t move,” Lucia snapped. “You mustn’t move your head or you might injure yourself further.”

Pelonia stiffened. She wasn’t accustomed to taking orders. Neither her father nor the tutors he’d hired to teach her had ever raised their voices.

Lucia glanced toward the door. “She’s argumentative. I have a hunch she’ll be difficult. She denies she’s your slave.”

Silence followed Lucia’s remark. Pelonia’s nerves stretched taut as she waited for a response. Would this man who claimed to own her kill or beat her? She’d heard of men committing atrocities against their slaves for little, sometimes no reason. Was he one of those cruel barbarians?

She sensed him move closer. Her skin tingled and her tension rose as if she were prey in the sights of a hungry lion. At last, the lion crossed to where she could see him.

Sunlight streaming through the window enveloped the giant. A crisp, light colored tunic draped across his shoulders and the expanse of his chest contrasted sharply with his black hair and the rich copper of his skin. Gold bands around his wrists emphasized the strength of his arms, the physical power he held in check.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She could only stare. Without a doubt, the man could crush her if he chose.

“So, you are called Pelonia,” he said. “And my healer believes you wish to fight me.”

Her gaze locked with the unusual blue of his forceful glare. For the first time, she understood how the Hebrew David must have suffered when he faced Goliath. Swallowing the lump of fear in her throat, she nodded. “If I must.”

“If you must?” Caros eyed Pelonia with a mix of irritation and respect. He was used to grown men trembling before him. With her tunic filthy and torn, her dark hair rippling in disarray across the packed earthen floor and her bruises healing, his new slave looked like a wounded goddess. But she was just an ordinary woman. Flea-bitten and trodden upon. Why did she think she could defy him?

To her credit, she wasn’t a simpering wench. Her resistance reminded him of his own the day he’d been forced into slavery. Beaten, chained by his Roman adversaries, he’d sworn no one would ever own him. He’d been mistaken, of course. This new slave would be proven wrong as well.

“Then let the games begin,” he said, his voice thick with mockery.

“Games?” she asked faintly. “You think…this…this is a game?”

The roughness of her voice reminded him of her body’s weakened condition—a frailty her spirit clearly didn’t share. Crouching beside her, he ran his forefinger over the yellowed bruise on her cheek. She didn’t flinch as he expected. Instead, she closed her eyes and sighed as though his touch somehow soothed her.

Her guileless response unnerved him. The need to protect her enveloped him, a sensation he hadn’t known since the deaths of his mother and sisters. As a slave, he’d been beaten on many occasions in an effort to conquer his will. That no one ever succeeded was a matter of pride for him. Much to his surprise, he had no wish to see this girl broken, either.

“Of course it’s a game.” He lifted a strand of her dark hair and caressed it between his fingers. “And I will be the victor. I live to win.”

“It’s true.” Lucia moved from the shadows. “Our master has never been defeated.”

Defiance flamed in the depths of her large, doe-brown eyes. She didn’t speak and he admired her restraint when he could see she wanted to flay him.

Challenged to draw a response from her, he trailed his fingers over her full bottom lip. “You might as well give in now, my prize. I have no wish to crush your spirit. I own you whether you will it or not.”

She turned her head toward the stone wall, but he gripped her chin and forced her to look at him.

“Admit it,” he said with no pity for her loss of pride. “Then you can return to your sleep.”

She shook her head. “No. No one owns me…no one but my God.”

He dropped his hand away as though she’d sprouted leprosy. “And who might your god be? Jupiter? Apollo? Or maybe you worship the god of the sea. Do you think Neptune will leave his watery throne and rescue you?”

“The Christ.” For the first time, her voice didn’t waver.

So, she admitted following the criminal sect. Caros studied her, wondering if she were a fool or had a wish for death. “Say that to the wrong person, Pelonia, and you’ll find yourself facing the lions.”

“I already am.”

He laughed. “So you think of me as a ferocious beast?”

Her silence amused him all the more. “Good. It suits me well to know you realize I’m untamed and capable of tearing you limb from limb.”

Her fingers clutched at the dirt floor. “Then do your worst. Death is better…than being owned.”

Lucia scoffed under her breath, drawing Caros’s attention to where the healer waited by the window, the noonday sun coursing through the open shutters.

“What foolishness.” Lucia came to stand by a roughhewn table littered with the bottles and bowls of her medicines. “I warned you the girl would argue, Master. I’d wager she deserved the thrashing she received if all she did was quarrel.”

“The slave trader did mention she’d been beaten for a disagreement with her uncle.” Caros’s attention slipped back to Pelonia, who’d grown pale and weaker still.

Concerned by her pallor, he berated himself for baiting her, for depleting her meager strength when he should have been encouraging her to heal. Without pausing to examine his motives, he reached down and lifted her into his arms, prepared for her to protest.

When she sagged against his chest without a fight, her acquiescence alarmed him. She weighed no more than a laurel leaf and it occurred to him she’d eaten nothing more than tepid broth for the last several days. In her weakened state, had he shoved her to the brink of death?

Holding her tight against his chest, he whispered near her ear. “Tell me, Pelonia. What can I do to aid you? What can I do to ease your plight?”

“Find…Tiberia,” she whispered, the dregs of her strength draining away. “And free me.”




Chapter Three


I will not weep.

Pelonia paused in weeding the kitchen’s herb garden and wiped perspiration from her brow. Scents of basil and mint mingled with the sweetness of wild jasmine. A small fountain’s splashing water and the aroma of fresh-baked bread reminded her of home.

The garden’s rich black dirt stained her fingers, resurrecting painful reminders of her father’s burial less than a fortnight ago. Fangs of betrayal bit deep. How could a loving God allow one of His most kind and humble servants to suffer so heinous a death?

Why had God delivered her to this gladiatorial training ground, this disgusting den of violence, to serve as a slave? How did He expect her to face Caros Viriathos on a daily basis when each sight of her captor filled her with resentment and simmering rage?

She ripped a weed from the dirt and flung it into a basket beside her. The lanista didn’t have a right to imprison her here! In the week since Caros carried her from the slave quarters, he’d provided for her needs and seen her cared for, but his vow to rule over her kept him from finding Tiberia. His adamant refusal to contact her cousin, regardless of Tiberia’s certain anxiety, stoked her frustration and her fury.

She sneered at the garden wall that marked the boundary of her prison. Caros Viriathos had stolen her life and she would see it returned. In a few days, her injuries would be completely healed and the occasional blurring of her vision would disappear the same as the knot on her head.

She would escape and find Tiberia, who wouldn’t hesitate to buy her freedom. It didn’t matter that a runaway slave faced the penalty of death. She couldn’t abide the abysmal future she faced living as less than someone’s chattel.

The weeds she’d discarded drew her attention. Bitterness bloomed until she tasted it. That’s what God had done to her. Uprooted her from the flourishing soil of home and cast her aside as if she meant nothing. How could she trust a God who delivered her into such a deep chasm of despair?

The snap of a twig startled her out of her grim thoughts. A low growl directly behind her raised her hair on end. She froze, her breath lodged in her chest. Why hadn’t she sensed the animal’s approach? She’d heard the roar of big cats and sounds of various game in the training yard, but was the beast here?

Her heart stopped when warm, moist breath caressed her neck and a large wet nose sniffed her hair. From the corner of her eye, she saw the orange-and-black-striped head of a…tiger.

“Cat!” Caros’s deep voice boomed across the garden. Pelonia’s heart raced as though it meant to escape her chest.

“Cat!” he called again, his swift steps crunching dried leaves along the garden’s path. “Come, before you terrify my new slave to death.”

The tiger sniffed Pelonia’s hair once more before he returned to his master. The animal’s long, curved tail flicked her in the face as it sauntered off.

An eon seemed to pass before she took an even breath. Her muscles unlocked and she almost pitched forward into the herbs, her hands shaking with latent fear.

Caros’s long shadow stretched across the herb bed in front of her. From her seat on the ground, he seemed as tall and formidable as a colossus.

He crouched beside her, his intense blue gaze riveted to her face. “Are you well or did my pet scare you speechless?”

Not wanting him to see her tremble, she tightened her fists and tried to ignore the tiger’s golden eyes fixed upon her. “Your pet? Are you insane?”

He shrugged. “Some claim so.”

“I agree with them.” She pulled another weed. “Only a lunatic would allow a tiger to run loose in his garden.”

“He wasn’t actually free. He yanked his lead from my hand. It’s your fault. You were in his domain and he wished to inspect you.”

She gave him a level stare. “It’s not my will that keeps me here. I’ll gladly go to my cousin’s home if I’m making the beast ill at ease.”

“Beast?” Caros stroked the tiger’s wide head and ignored her statement. “Hardly. He’s as placid as a lamb with people he tolerates. He didn’t kill you, so he must find you acceptable.”

The powerful animal rolled to his side and Caros began to scratch his chin. Pelonia marveled at the sight of the huge contented cat. Sensing the affection between master and pet, she couldn’t help but smile when Cat’s eyelids began to droop and his body relaxed. Within moments he was stretched out in peaceful slumber.

“See? As placid as a lamb.” Caros grinned. “His snoring will begin any moment.”

As if on cue, a low rumble emanated from the sleeping creature. She reached out her hand, then drew back. “Can I touch him?”

“Of course,” he said. “Move closer so you don’t stretch and hurt your ribs.”

His thoughtfulness continued to perplex her. She brushed the excess dirt from her hands and did as he said. Hesitant at first, she stroked the top of the animal’s head, surprised by the softness of its fur.

“Have you ever seen a Caspian tiger?”

She shook her head. “Sketches only. My father took me to a menagerie once. There were lions and a panther, but no tigers. Have you had this one long?”

Caros continued to watch her. “Three years, since he was a cub. He was the runt of his litter. My old lanista, Spurius, refused to feed him since Cat was sickly and he doubted he’d grow large enough for the ring. I fed him part of my rations and when I won my freedom a few months later I took Cat with me. As you can see, proper care has made him as healthy as any of his kind.”

“You were freed? You were a slave once?”

He plucked a sprig of mint from a plant at the path’s edge. “For ten years. From the age of fifteen, I fought as a gladiator.”

She reached for a clump of basil to divide and replant. “Then you’ve lived the horror of having your freedom ripped from you and your life pitched on end?”

His face darkened. He nodded.

“Did you enjoy being a slave?”

“Why ask foolish questions? Who would enjoy being a slave?”

“Perhaps you liked killing for sport in the ring?”

His eyes narrowed. “I killed because I didn’t wish to die.”

Then how could he enslave others? The injustice of his actions soured her stomach with disdain. She tossed the basil into the dirt and rose to her feet, wincing at the twinge of pain in her ribs.

The tiger opened his eyes, instantly alert. Wary of the predator, she stepped away, but her temper burned too strong to completely curb her tongue.

“You’re a hypocrite, Caros Viriathos. How can you buy and sell flesh when you know firsthand of its brutality?”

Dropping the mint leaves, Caros stood, his stance suggesting he was ready for battle. “Think before you insult me, slave. Have I not been kind to you? Perhaps I’ve been too kind if you believe you can question me like an equal when you are not.”

She chafed at the reminder of her degraded status.

“You’re my property,” he continued with confidence. “Remember your place.”

Hot with indignation, she stared at him, silently defying his ownership. Eventually, she admitted, “I’m your prisoner, but once I find my cousin, I will buy back my freedom.”

“You aren’t for sale.” His fists clenched at his side, his eyes turned the color of a stormy sea. “You are my slave and will be until I tire of you. Remember I hold your life in my hand. If I choose to see you dead, it will be so, but you won’t be sold.”

Inwardly, she trembled at the power he held over her. Tension crackled between them like a growing blaze. Cat sprang to his feet and began to pace with restlessness.

She took a step closer to Caros, a part of her wishing for death to end the misery she’d endured since leaving home. “My God alone can grant you the power to take my life. Should He do so, I will rejoice. Not only will I be free from you, but I will see my father in heaven and be face-to-face with my Savior.”

“Your savior?” he scoffed. “You mean Jesus, the Jew the Romans crucified? He’s dead. Even if He weren’t, why would He want a shrew like you to pester Him for all eternity?”

The blood leeched from her face. His barb struck like the sting of a lash. Her father had taught her to live as an example of Christ’s love to others. To trust that God held her in His hand and had a purpose for her life.

Since she’d buried her father, she’d refused to cry. She’d known he would want her to be strong. Shame replaced her anger. She’d tried so hard to please her earthly father, but what had she done thus far to please her Heavenly one?

The gate’s creaking hinges sliced through the weighted silence. Pelonia glanced in the direction of the kitchen. Gaius, Caros’s short, elderly steward approached, his face red from his hurried stride.

“Master.” Gaius held up a roll of parchment. “I have word from Spurius concerning tomorrow’s games.”

Caros raked his hand through his thick, wavy hair. Releasing an exasperated sigh, he met the man halfway. While he and his steward discussed the news, Cat lay down in the shade of a lemon tree.

Pelonia watched the tall, arrogant man in front of her, a war waging within her heart and mind. Resentment battled with the knowledge that Caros was a man in need of God’s love. A lifetime of teaching had impressed her to forgive, to be an example of compassion. But how could she be a light in this gladiator’s brutal world when her own spirit felt cloaked in darkness?

Gaius retreated from the garden. Caros returned to her, his angular face an inscrutable mask. “Where were we?”

“At an impasse,” she reminded him.

“Ah, an impasse.” A devious smile formed about his lips. “Then I believe I have a solution to our dilemma. Apologize for your barbed tongue or I will take your silence to mean you understand your place here and have come to accept your fate.”

Praying for patience, she took a deep breath to fortify herself, then slowly released it. “I’ve accepted nothing. However, I’m an honest woman, so I will be fair and tell you now my plans remain the same as they have been. As soon as I’m able, I will escape from you, find my cousin and see my freedom restored. Until then—”

“Say no more, slave. Perhaps you’re unaware runaways are hunted like dogs and dispatched like rodents?”

“I’m aware of it,” she said, refusing to be intimidated.

He shook his head, clearly bemused by his inability to cow her. “You’re a unique woman, Pelonia. I’ve never met your like.”

She raised her chin. “My father used to say the same.”

Caros moved a few steps to the fountain and dipped his hand into the sparkling water. “What happened to him?”

The question stung like vinegar in a festering cut. Renewed sadness lodged a ball of pain in her throat. “God saw fit to take him home.”

“When?”

Pelonia crossed her arms over her chest. She tried to make her voice emotionless. “On the road to Rome eleven days past. We were attacked by marauders. My father and our servants were killed. Everything of value was stolen. Only my uncle and I were left alive.”

His eyes brimmed with compassion, awakening a desperate need for comfort. “How did you survive?”

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She turned her back on him, nearly tripping over the basket of weeds by her feet. “I’d snuck away before dawn to bathe in the river. My father had told me not to go. He said it was too dangerous, that I and the other women could seek out one of the bathhouses once we reached Rome.”

Her voice cracked. “We were so close, you see. Less than a day’s journey to my cousin’s home on the Palatine. But I didn’t listen. I hate feeling unclean. My maid would have come with me, but I didn’t want her to face my father’s displeasure if he discovered my absence, so I went alone. I was in the water when I heard distant screaming. I tried to return with all possible haste. I would have given my life to save any of them. I would have. Honestly, I would have.”

In two steps he was beside her, his arms banding about her shoulders. “I believe you. How did you escape?”

Enveloped in his strength, she allowed herself to forget they were enemies for a moment. She pressed her face to his chest, accepting the comfort she craved. “The thieves were gone by the time I arrived. They struck like lightning, unexpected and gone like a fast-moving storm.”

“Why did your uncle beat you?”

Her eyes slipped closed. She inhaled the hint of spice on his skin. “I insisted he help bury the dead. He agreed because he’d seen a scout for the slave caravan approaching. When he told me of his plan to sell me, we argued and I tried to flee.”

Caros’s arms tightened around her. “I’m sorry, mea carissima. No one deserves to know such tragedy. Accept your life here, and I promise you will be treated with nothing but kindness.”

“Your kindness is no worthy replacement for my freedom.” She pushed his arms away, untangling herself from his embrace. “I can’t accept a life of slavery. I’d shrivel up and die if I did. For whatever reason, God has seen fit I serve you for now. I’ll do my best for His sake, but I won’t promise to stay here forever.”

Caros’s eyes glittered like chips of blue glass in the sunlight. A nerve ticked in his jaw. “Then I make no assurance either, slave. You shall have neither my protection nor my sympathy and we shall see how well your God defends you.”




Chapter Four


Caros snatched up a gladius and pointed the sword’s sharp tip toward his best gladiator. “Alexius, join me on the field. I need to spill blood.”

Alexius, a Mirmillo specifically trained to fight with a straight, Greek-styled sword, chose his favorite weapon and followed Caros across the sunbaked sand.

At the center of the elliptical field, Caros rolled his shoulders, loosening his muscles.

Alexius settled into a defensive posture, a hint of his usual humor dancing in his dark eyes. “To what do I owe this honor, Bone Grinder?”

Caros tensed, his encounter with Pelonia fresh in his mind. All senses fully alert, he could feel her presence in the garden, tugging at him. He almost returned to her until his temper flared. He was a fool. She’d repaid his kindness with constant rejection. His grip tightened on the sword hilt.

Alexius raised his shield. “Hail, Master. Greetings from one about to die,” he said, mocking the adage gladiators chanted to the emperor before battle.

Caros swung his sword and lunged forward, slicing the other man’s upper arm. “Don’t test me today, Alexius. I’m in no mood for your humor.”

Gaping at the stream of blood on his arm, the Greek grew serious, a state he reserved for the ring. He kicked sand in Caros’s face, then thrust his blade with the speed of a whip. “And I’m in no mood to perish.”

Blinking the sand from his eyes, Caros sidestepped the blow and plowed forward, whirling his weapon with the swiftness and force of a storm. Alexius fell back.

The atmosphere erupted with excitement. The other gladiators stopped training and cast lots on the victor. Voices cheered from the sidelines. A few slaves poked their heads from the upstairs windows, eager to witness the entertainment.

Caros’s gladius struck the other man’s shield. “A gladiator is always prepared for death.”

Alexius plowed forward. His face contorted, his muscles straining against the force of Caros’s attack. “I have an appointment with one of my admirers tonight. If I must die in my prime, I’d rather it be tomorrow.”

As his sword sparked against the Greek’s blade, Caros shook his head, almost amused. Unlike him, Alexius had rejected freedom when offered it. The Greek preferred the life of a gladiator, unaffected by its lowly status when women of every social standing practically worshiped him as a god.

The thought of women revived thoughts of Pelonia. Her huge brown eyes and her mouth made his pulse race, even as her defiance enflamed his displeasure. Worse, he disliked how his heart leaped at each new sight of her.

How could so contrary a female wreak such havoc on his senses? Mystified, Caros thought he’d conquered his emotions years ago. A quick temper usually meant a speedy death in the arena. Only cold efficiency kept a fighting man alive.

Why, then, couldn’t he control his reaction to one impudent, albeit beautiful, slave?

With renewed irritation, he focused his energies on the fight at hand. Up and down the training field, the two warriors matched each other blow for blow.

The sun beat down on Caros’s shoulders. Bloodlust pumped through his veins, releasing the aggression Pelonia stoked in him.

His sword flashed in the sunlight and caught Alexius on the leg. He smiled at the other man’s look of disgust and shrugged. “A wound for your lady to tend tonight.”

“I best not mark you, then. One more scar and your horde of beauties will run for Campania. You’re ugly enough as it is.”

“Ha! One of these days, I’m going to tire of your witless tongue and cut it from your insolent mouth.”

Grinning, Alexius swung his shield at Caros’s head. “Then again, the new slave Lucia mentioned this morning has no choice except to serve you. Perhaps you can force her to meet your needs.”

Caros ducked from the shield just before it struck him and rammed his shoulder into the other man’s middle. Frowning, he fumed at Alexius’s suggestive tone. Had Lucia told him of Pelonia’s rebellion?

Caros landed a fist to Alexius’s stomach, then another. The other man groaned as he broke away.

The Greek recovered quickly and jabbed with his sword, catching Caros in the ribs. The cut stunned the breath from his lungs.

A smug expression crossed Alexius’s face. “You’re growing slow, Master. Perhaps you’re getting old for this sort of play?”

“Think again,” he said, his side stinging, “and leave delusions to your women.”

Caros’s free hand shot out. He caught Alexius’s sword hilt and yanked. Alexius stumbled forward and fell to his knees, astonishment etched on his features.

Had they been in the ring, Caros could have delivered a deathblow with ease and been done with the match. But he wasn’t fighting to the death—at least not with Alexius. His instincts warned Pelonia was another matter and he was in danger of losing both his will and his heart.

Caros eyed his fallen champion, dissatisfied with the fight. His sparring with Pelonia had offered far more interesting sport. Her fearlessness impressed him. “I’m not slow or old. I’m bored. I’d hoped you’d provide more of a challenge.”

“I doubt even Mars could have bested you today.” Alexius massaged his jaw and laughed, his good humor returning with ease. “Tell me, Bone Grinder, has your temper been appeased or do you still feel a need for blood?”

Caros glanced over his shoulder toward the garden behind the cookhouse where he’d last seen Pelonia. “I fear what I need most can’t be solved with weapons.”

Alexius’s face twisted with confusion. “What is there if not battle?”

Peace. The thought beckoned him, tempting him with the idea of a different way of life. A way of life he’d known in his youth, but abandoned hope of ever finding again.

His desire to see Pelonia too strong to ignore, he left the field without answering Alexius. Before another hour passed he planned to make amends for how he’d treated her. Why drive a wedge between them when he wanted to know her better?

Pushing through the circle of men offering praise for his victory, he handed his gladius to one of the guards. He swiped a fresh tunic off a bench and pulled it over his head as he walked toward the cookhouse.

Without examining his need for haste, Caros returned to the garden. A breeze rustled the fruit trees and water splashed in the fountain, but there was an unnatural stillness that made him ill at ease.

“Pelonia?” His steps echoed along the walkway. He noticed Pelonia had done a fine job completing her task. Not only were the weeds gone, but the herbs were trimmed and the paths swept clean.

“Pelonia,” he called again, eager to see her face once more.

The gate swung open. A wave of relief died the moment he turned and saw Lucia.

“She’s not here, Master.” The healer shifted a basket from one hip to the other. “I was on my way to find you. I’ve looked everywhere, but she’s gone.”



Tiberia left her plate of uneaten fruit and paced the family quarters of her new husband’s Palatine home. Her fingertips brushed the marble top of a writing desk as she walked from one end of the large room to the other. Even the fragrant scent of incense did little to soothe her.

Marcus entered the chamber from where he’d been relaxing in the courtyard. A breeze followed him, rustling the gossamer drapes at each side of the tall doorway.

Taking a seat on the silk covered couch, he picked up a dish of honeyed almonds from a nearby table and stuffed several into his mouth.

Tiberia pitied him. The horror he’d suffered on his way to Rome was too vile to contemplate. Marcus had arrived the day after her wedding, told her of the attack and his brother’s murder. How Pelonia had been kidnapped.

Tears formed in her eyes when she thought of her cousin. Poor Marcus had reluctantly shared how he’d fought for Pelonia’s freedom, done everything in his power to keep her from being stolen. If not for his injuries, he’d said, he could have saved her.

“Are you well, my dear?” Marcus asked.

“It’s Pelonia. I can’t believe she’s lost to me forever.”

Setting the almonds aside, he cast his gaze to the woven carpet. “We must accept what the gods will. It’s not for us to question.”

She folded into a chair, feeling weak and far from her usually tenacious self. “I know. I’m just grateful I’ve had Antonius to lean on. I don’t think I could have endured this without him.”

“Yes, Fortuna has blessed you.” He knelt before her. “You must remember that and focus on your new life. You’re a senator’s wife now with many responsibilities.”

“How can I when I feel as though a hole has been gouged in my heart?”

“I understand, my dear. Who feels the loss of Pelonia and her father more than I? You and your husband are all the family I have left in this world and even that connection is solely by marriage.”

She chose a linen square from the table beside her and dabbed her eyes. “No, Marcus, you must think of yourself as our true family. I may have been related to Pelonia through her mother, while you claimed paternal ties, but if blood cannot bind us together, surely this shared misfortune makes us kin.”

“You are most kind.” Marcus lowered his head. “If only I’d been able to save my brother and precious niece.”

Her heart broke for the grieving man. Guilt washed over her. Had it not been for her wedding, Pelonia and her household would still be alive.

Vowing to do all she could to help Pelonia’s last paternal relative, she patted Marcus’s shoulder. “I should never have invited our loved ones to see me wed. Iguvium is too far north and the journey is perilous. Had I not, they—”

“No, you mustn’t blame yourself.” Marcus’s hand strayed to her knee. “It’s tragic to be sure, but my brother and his household courted punishment. What other fate could they expect when they turned from our ancestors and forsook our gods? I believe I yet live because the gods protected me.”

Discomfited by his familiar manner and harsh opinion of his brother and Pelonia, Tiberia left the chair and walked to the window where a kestrel balanced on the edge of the sill. For years Pelonia had written about her faith in the crucified Jew, Jesus. She’d often feared her cousin would be found out and sentenced to suffer some heinous punishment. Perhaps the gods had taken matters into their own hands after all.

Marcus came to stand close behind her. His knobby fingers clutched her shoulders. “I apologize if I upset you. Let us speak of it no more and remember my brother’s house with nothing but fondness.”

“Agreed,” she said, oddly alarmed by his nearness.

“Good. You’re very amiable.” He fingered a curl by her temple before moving back to the bowl of almonds. “I can see you will make a fine senator’s wife.”

“Thank you.” A glance over her shoulder revealed the old man’s intense scrutiny. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, willing her husband to return home quickly. “Excuse me, I must see to the evening’s meal.”

“By all means.” He patted the seat beside him on the couch. “Then return soon and we shall reminisce for a time.”

Hurrying from the chamber, Tiberia shuddered and hoped with all her heart she’d only imagined the lust flickering in the old man’s eyes.




Chapter Five


Pelonia pulled open the door of the storage room she’d been ordered to clean. Dim light filtered through the slats in the closed shutters, exposing a mountain of dirt and clutter.

Stepping into the narrow cell, she leaned her broom against the wall and set down her bucket of water. She stretched the tight muscles of her back, her ribs burning from the day’s strenuous labor. This room was her last. As soon as she finished, she planned to seek out her pallet before Lucia concocted more aimless chores for her to do.

With a fortifying breath, she adjusted her tunic, detesting the coarse brown material scratching her skin from her neck to her ankles. She longed for the soft linen and brightly colored silks she’d always worn at home. Hoping a breeze would alleviate the itching discomfort of her slave’s garb, she went to the window and threw open the shutters.

Positioned on the upper story, the storage room provided a lofty view of the training field. Below, Caros shouted at the men gathered around him. His sharp hand motions and livid countenance testified to his fury though the distance between them kept her from discerning his words.

Had some calamitous misfortune befallen them or did Caros Viriathos entertain a perpetually black mood?

No, that wasn’t fair. Over the previous week, he’d shown his capacity for kindness by having her cared for while she recuperated. He hadn’t turned vicious until she’d refused to accept his ownership.

As the group of gladiators disbanded, she rejected all benevolent thoughts of the lanista. She couldn’t afford to soften toward him. Caros had declared war against her in the garden. He’d threatened her, frightened her, ridiculed her.

Hate, an emotion she’d never sampled before coming to Rome, crept into her heart. In that moment, all the lessons she’d learned about faith and compassion rang hollow. How could anyone possibly follow all of Christ’s commands? Would she ever be able to forgive and love her enemy?

She watched Caros return indoors. As though a violent tempest had passed, an atmosphere of calm descended. The gladiators returned their weapons to the guards and filed into their quarters.

She picked up a rag she’d brought with her and began to dust. A vision of Caros plagued her. No one had ever affected her quite like the gladiator. When she looked at him, she saw a compelling, world-weary man, too proud for his own good. Worse, the sense of helpless fascination she experienced in his presence mortified her.

If she were the righteous person she ought to be, she’d pray for him, but the faith to pray eluded her for the first time in her memory. Never before had God seemed so distant. The wrath marking Caros’s face when he’d mocked God’s ability to protect her filled her with fear. What if Caros were right? What if her heavenly Father could no longer protect her? What if He simply chose not to?

Exhausted from wrestling with unanswered questions, she finished cleaning and headed downstairs. At the end of a long corridor, she came to a partially opened door. She knocked hard enough to push it wider. The room was empty, but something about the restful space drew her inside.

A wooden sword hung prominently on one wall. Small ancestral statues, three women and a man, sat atop a shelf beneath it. A couch and two chairs crafted of rich wood and the finest, deep blue coverings partially hid the mosaic masterworks of various animals and lush vegetation that covered the floor. On the wall opposite the sword, a fresco of mountains against the backdrop of a fiery setting sun, lent the space a haunting, solitary air.

Crossing to the window, she admired the house’s inner atrium with its decorative columns and trio of fountains. Climbing red roses perfumed the air with a sweet scent that reminded her of her own flower garden at home.

An older man shuffled into the courtyard carrying a hoe and woven basket. When he saw her, she waved in greeting. A toothless grin flashed across his aged features before he tottered back the way he’d come.

How odd for him to retreat without a single word to her. She shrugged. What did she know of Caros’s servants? Perhaps they were all as strange as their master.

She began to leave a moment before Lucia raced across the threshold. “Where have you been and what are you doing in the master’s private room?” she demanded an octave higher than necessary. “If Servius hadn’t seen you from the garden, the entire household would still be in an uproar searching for you.”

“What game are you playing?” Pelonia asked. “You know I was cleaning the storage rooms as you ordered.”

“You lie. I looked for you there. You were nowhere to be found.”

“How dare you call me a liar? I…” Her words trailed away when Caros appeared in the doorway. The room seemed to shrink and her pulse began to race like a stallion set free.

“Master.” Lucia looked to Caros with an eager smile. “I found her.”

“So I see.” His gaze scorched Pelonia from head to foot. “You may leave us, Lucia.”

The young healer looked stricken, then resigned before she turned to go. “Beware of this one, Master. She has the face of Venus, but she’s even more deceitful.”

Caros didn’t comment, leaving Pelonia with the uneasy feeling he agreed with Lucia’s poison. Once they were alone, he stepped deeper into the room. “Where have you been?” he asked, his tone as emotionless as stone.

“Upstairs.” Her gaze roamed over the large bruise on his cheek, the multiple gashes marring the sinew of his arms and exposed collarbone. How much more damage did his tunic conceal? He must be in pain. She resisted a tug of concern and the desire to tend his injuries.

“What were you doing there?”

“Lucia sent me to clean.”

“I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t assign hard labor when you’ve yet to fully heal.”

“She said you meant to punish me.”

“Now I’m certain you lie. I said nothing to Lucia about you.”

She looked away from his icy blue stare, irritated enough at being called a liar again to dismiss her concern for his wounds. “Your thoughts are your own. Believe what you will. But if you meant to show me how harsh life here will be without your protection, consider your point well made.”

“If you were cleaning upstairs why are you here in my private room? Did you plan to rob me before attempting the escape you threatened?”

“First I’m a liar, now I’m a thief?” she asked, unreasonably hurt by his low opinion of her. “If you knew me better, you’d realize you have no need to question my honesty. What have I done to give you the impression I’d steal from you?”

Caros contemplated the question while he steadied his breathing. How dare she stand before him acting as though she was in the right? By the gods, she’d given him the scare of his life. Once he’d discovered her gone, he’d turned the domus upside down looking for her. Visions of her fleeing into the wrong spot and encountering his men had him locking them up in the middle of the day.

Unwilling to examine the fear he’d experienced when he thought she’d run away, he hugged his anger to him like a protective coat of mail.

“Well?” she demanded. “What have I done?”

He stepped toward her.

She jumped back, her palms outstretched as though to ward off an attack. “Don’t come any closer.”

He moved forward, within easy reach of her. “Why should I not?”

She dashed away, positioning herself behind a piece of furniture.

“Do you think a chair will offer protection if I choose to lay my hands on you?”

“Some protection is better than none.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Even gladiators gird themselves before a match.”

“True, but no amount of armor can compare with experience. I’ve fought for almost half my life. You’re as battle hardened as a kitten.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I admit you’re a better fighter than I—”

“Yet I’m not the one who usually begins our skirmishes.”

“You blame me for the difficulties between us? I’ve done nothing—”

“But argue.” Most of the anxiety she’d caused him began to melt away now that the shock of her disappearance had begun to wear off.

“I’ve done no more than defended myself. You’re just unreasonable. Your high-handedness begs to be brought down a peg.”

“Is that so?” He shoved the chair out of his way and gripped her upper arms before she realized his intent to strike. “If we were equals you might be the woman to chastise me. As it is, you’re a slave who’d be wise to keep her opinions to herself.”

“And you’re a pompous…gladiator!”

Caros almost congratulated her. She’d held her ground, though he could see fear lurked in the depths of her soulful brown eyes.

“Why are you smiling?” Her distrust was unconcealed. “Have you devised some new punishment for me?”

He caressed her arms, enjoying the smoothness of her skin. “I thought I might train you to fight in the arena. A woman in the games is a novelty. If this display of temper is any indication, you certainly have the mettle for it.”

She escaped from his hold and fled to the window. “Your humor is misplaced, lanista. If you trained me with a weapon, you’d be wise to refrain from sleep.”

He laughed outright. “So, you’d kill me, would you? Doesn’t your God frown on murder?”

With a defiant toss of her head, she glared at him. Glad to see her bruises all but gone, he admired the way the window framed her beautiful face and delicate stature. Even the ragged tunic did nothing to hide her appeal.

“Blasphemy is a sin the same as murder,” she said. “God might not pardon you for mocking Him, but given your contrary nature, I’m sure He’d understand my actions and forgive me without reservation.”

“Perhaps,” he said flatly. “But you might be surprised to find how difficult it is to forgive yourself.”

Mollified by the horror in her eyes, he turned to leave. “Be warned, slave. Disappear again and you won’t like the consequences. If you think dusting storage rooms is punishment, you’ll realize it’s child’s play compared to the tasks I’ll drop at your feet.”

Outside, the sun beat down on him. He sensed Pelonia was jesting when she spoke of murdering him and her God’s forgiveness for such an act, but what if it were true? What if her God were powerful enough to forgive the vilest crime and erase the guilt crippling his soul?

Hope flickered like an elusive flame inside him, then burned out just as quickly. He’d done too much evil to think of receiving mercy. He’d killed countless men, many of them Christians. Why would their God embrace an enemy?

He shook his head, his spirit bleak. He was lost with no way to be found. He should accept his fate and stop longing for redemption. Deep in his heart he accepted he wasn’t worthy.




Chapter Six


Pelonia couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned on her hard pallet, her body begging for slumber, her mind too conflicted to rest. She kept envisioning Caros’s dejected face when she’d taunted him. How could she have suggested she’d murder him or that God would forgive her for the crime? Yes, she’d been angry, but such meanness wasn’t her way.

She didn’t feel like herself anymore. Her whole life had changed for the bitter. She closed her eyes and tried to pray, once again asking for forgiveness and direction. Afterward, her heart was lighter, but God seemed just as distant.

She gazed out the open window. It would be dawn soon, but for now an array of stars twinkled in the tar-black sky. As a child, she’d loved gazing into the night, memorizing the constellations her tutors had shown her. A smile curved her mouth as she remembered her father pointing out different celestial patterns and teaching her the wonders of God’s creation. With true gratitude, she thanked the Lord for those sweet memories.

Giving up on sleep, she flipped away the light covering and stood. Stiff muscles protested as she crossed the tiny room she’d inhabited since Caros brought her here from the slave quarters eight days ago. She wondered when she would join the other slaves. Surely Caros had better use for the space than to allow her a private chamber.

She rested her palms on the windowsill. The first rose-colored streaks of dawn painted the horizon. A cool breeze ruffled her hair and a dog barked in the distance, the only sound amid the silence.

Steps shuffled in the hall. Someone pounded on the portal loud enough to wake the deepest sleeper.

“It’s time to rise,” Lucia commanded through the closed portal.

“I’m coming.”

“Be quick about it. Find out what herbs Cook needs from the garden and fetch them for him.”

Pelonia changed her tunic and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders before venturing into the corridor. A series of lanterns lit the way downstairs to the back of the house. A pair of guards waited at attention by the rear door. With a hurried greeting to the giant, dark-skinned Africans, she crossed outside into the fresh air. The smell of baking bread made her mouth water.

Following the brick path to the kitchen, she glimpsed Caros training with a sword in the peach orchard. A look of concentration etched his handsome face. He didn’t see her. Free to watch him without the expectation of conversation, she halted, mesmerized by the power and grace of his movements. He reminded her of music come to life in human form. Even the scar that looked like the swipe of a lion’s claw across his chest did nothing to detract from his appeal.

“Don’t fall in love with him,” Lucia said, slithering up beside her. “If any woman ever claims his heart, it will be me.”

Pelonia turned to see the healer fixed on Caros with a hungry gleam in her eyes. “You have nothing to fear from me. The man I choose to love will be the exact opposite of Caros Viriathos.”

“How so?” Lucia’s gaze never left her master.

“I want my husband to share my faith.”

“Husband?” The healer snickered. “You’re a slave. Why do you think you’ll be permitted to marry?”

Pelonia frowned. “I won’t always be a prisoner here. I refuse to believe I’ll never have a family of my own.”

Lucia snorted. “You should be thankful you’re alive and give up your fanciful notions.”

“It’s not fanciful to have faith. Circumstances can change as quickly as an ocean current.”

“Like your fortunes did the day you came here?”

“Yes,” Pelonia admitted, stung by Lucia’s harsh reminder.

“Then I can do without your faith. Why serve a deity who finds pleasure in making you a slave?”

For a moment, Pelonia grappled for an answer. Lucia’s question echoed the very words she’d asked herself so often since coming here. She glanced away from Lucia’s sneer to find Caros had finished his practice.

Her face flushed with pleasure when she noticed him watching her. Embarrassed by her reaction, she sought out Lucia’s harsh features like a lifeline.

“My God’s ways are a puzzle at times,” she said, clinging to her beliefs when she had little else to offer. “But I believe He’ll work all for my good if I’m patient and wait for Him to reveal His purpose.”

“Then you’re a fool. Why wait for your God to cause you more pain? Why not take matters into your own hands?”

A rooster crowed. Caros went off to the gladiators’ barracks. Two other slaves finished feeding the animals and walked past them into the house.

“I could arrange for your freedom,” Lucia said once they were alone.

Pelonia’s heart quickened. A surge of hope welled inside her as did her suspicion. “Why take such a risk? If Caros found out, he’d punish us both.”

Lucia flipped her long black braid over her shoulder. “Isn’t it obvious? I want the master for myself. Somehow you’ve bewitched him. He hasn’t been himself since you came here. He’s only waiting for your body to heal before he claims you, but I’m certain he’d forget you if you’d just disappear.”

Why shouldn’t she listen to Lucia? Both of them would have what they wanted if she accepted the healer’s help. “When could you arrange for me to leave?”

The morning light gave Lucia’s face a reddish cast. She smiled. “As early as tonight if you’re willing.”



Caros added another ladle of water to the red-hot coals. The liquid sizzled and steam filled the circular chamber of the bathhouse. He leaned against the warm marble wall, sweat beading on his skin.

After the morning’s sword practice and another taxing workout in the bath’s gymnasium, he hurt all over. Little wonder. His fight with Alexius yesterday had left his ribs bruised and his jaw throbbing. He’d been mad to double his usual exercise. Even more foolish to believe the added work would hinder his thoughts from straying to the unwelcome emotions Pelonia stirred in him.

The steam room’s door swung wide. He opened one eye and stifled a groan when he saw Spurius Albius swiping a path through the curling white vapor. As always, Caros’s temper flared at the sight of his former master, the man who’d stolen ten years of his life.

“There you are, Caros.” Spurius’s jowls bobbled as he spoke. “Gaius informed me I might find you here.”

“What do you want? I’m on my way to the frigidarium. I’m in need of a cold swim before I head home.”

“Leaving already?” Spurius hefted himself onto one of the marble ledges, adjusting his loincloth to accommodate his massive girth and stubby legs. “Isn’t it too soon in the day?”

Caros closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “Not since you arrived.”

Spurius chuckled. “Then I’ll go straight to the point. I want you to fight again.”

Caros lifted his head, battling his annoyance. “Why do you insist on vexing me with your endless attempts to drag me back to the arena? I’ve told you no a hundred times.”

“I’m persistent. Besides, it’s been a fortnight since you last turned me down.”

“And I believe I told you if you asked me again I’d feed you to Cat.”

Spurius shrugged. “I’m tough as old leather. He’d just spit me out.”

“But he might enjoy gnawing on you first.”

“If we were in your home, I might be frightened. But here—” Spurius motioned to the rising steam “—I’m safe.”

“Not with me in the chamber.”

Spurius used the edge of a cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I know you hate me, but we both know you won’t harm me no matter how much you’d like to see me dead. You were a condemned man once. I doubt you’d allow yourself to return to that lowly state.”

Caros grunted, unable to argue with the truth. Ending the worm’s life would please him to no end, but it wasn’t worth sacrificing all he’d achieved. “Exactly. Neither will I return to the games. Entering the arena requires me to place myself back in bondage. Rome itself will fall before I’ll forfeit my freedom or be forced to acknowledge another master.”

“You’re too proud, Caros.” Spurius sighed. “The truth is the mob is easily bored. Every day, it grows more difficult to arrange the grand events the crowd demands. The mob wants you, their champion, and the games’ sponsors are willing to pay any price for the spectators’ continued enjoyment.”

Caros tossed another ladle of water on the coals. “I’m retired, old man. If you wish to do business with me, speak to Gaius about Alexius or one of my other champions. Otherwise, distance yourself from my presence. My patience with you is over.”

“But think of the riches you’d win,” Spurius cajoled one last time. “You’re still the best gladiator alive.”

“I’m already rich. On the other hand, Alexius’s talents are for sale.”

Taking the hint, Spurius’s shoulders slumped in capitulation. “Since you’ve brought up Alexius, why can’t you be more like him? There’s a man who understands and enjoys his place in the world.”

“He’s a slave by choice. If he wanted his freedom I’d let him have it.”

Spurius frowned. “You’ve condemned me as a villain because I refused to sell you your freedom when you demanded it. But I ask you, what man would happily give up a gold mine? I was a fool to give the mob its way the day they chanted for your release. In the last three years I’ve lost ten fortunes for my drunken error.”

Caros stood and tightened the cloth around his hips. “You’re a fool, old man, drunk or otherwise.”

“True enough, but I’m also determined. One of these days I’ll tempt you out of retirement. You can be sure of it.”



Pelonia sensed Caros’s arrival in the garden before she heard him. Perching on tiptoe, she craned her neck for a better view of the herb-lined path. Caros and another man approached. Both were dark, tall and broad shouldered, but Caros moved with a grace that rivaled his tiger’s. Breathless, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He caught her staring and without warning sent the other man away. Without breaking their gaze, he closed the distance between them. “Why are you out here in the heat of the day?”

“Your steward assigned me to garden duty. I understood I’m to work here every day.”

“I’ll speak with him. There are easier tasks in the house.”

“No, this is fine.” She didn’t want to rile Gaius. The old man could make her life miserable if he chose. “I tended flowers and maintained a large vegetable garden for my father’s household.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. The gold wristbands he wore glinted in the sun. “If you came from a wealthy family, as you claim, why toil like a slave?”

Disliking the accusation in his question, Pelonia plucked a low-hanging leaf from the lemon tree and breathed in the citrus scent. “Simply because I enjoy planting something, caring for it and watching it grow.”

“I see. And how is it you never married? I’d expect a woman of your advanced age to have children of her own to nurture.”

“Advanced age? Are you trying to insult me?” she asked with mock severity.

“By the gods, no.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But most women wed by the age of twelve or thirteen summers. You’ve yet to wrinkle, but…how old are you?”

“Seventeen.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing at his discomfort. “And you? You have enough wrinkles for both of us, so I’d guess you are…?”

“Twenty-eight.” He fingered the faint lines around his right eye. “Are you saying you find me ugly and withered?”

She laughed for the first time since her father died. “Goodness, no, but all the scars were a bit off-putting at first.”

He sighed with exaggerated relief and led her to a bench beside the fountain. “Were? Does that mean my scars no longer bother you?”

In truth, she no longer noticed them. Not when the uniqueness of his azure eyes and the male beauty of his sculpted lips claimed all of her attention. “No, they don’t bother me.”

“Good.” His gaze dipped to the ground and she saw the beginnings of a smile curve his mouth. He brushed a thick curl of black hair from his forehead. “But you have yet to answer me. What’s wrong with you that you never married?”

She rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with me. My father was an unconventional man. He thought it best I wed the husband of my choosing. I’ve yet to make the fortunate man’s acquaintance.”

Caros’s laughter filled the garden. “Aha! Another woman in search of a perfect man. I doubt you’ll find him.”

Pelonia fought her own grin. “I’ve no wish for a perfect man. Just one who’s perfect for me.”

“Perhaps you’ve met him, but don’t realize it. What if he were…one of my men?”

“He isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

She weighed her words with care. “I mean no disrespect, but…but my father would never have condoned my marriage to a man of your occupation.”

“I see.” His lips firmed into a hard line. “I should have known, but it’s easy to forget we gladiators are the scum of the earth when most of the empire worships our every move.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t. I know the status of my profession. So, what virtues must this god among mortals possess to win your favor?”

“I want no god other than the One I serve. As for a husband, I pray…”

A bird chirped, filling in the late afternoon’s silence while she debated whether or not to share further. Being a pagan, and a man, she doubted he would understand.

“Yes?” Caros persisted.

“There was a man named Paul of Tarsus,” she said before she lost her nerve.

“You wished to marry him?”

“No.” She shook her head, disconcerted by the sudden malice in his expression. “Paul was the first Jew to teach Gentiles the ways of Jesus. In his letters to the various Christian communities, he taught many truths.”

“And for this you admire him? I, for one, would reconsider elevating a teacher who led me down a road to persecution and slaughter.”

“On marriage,” she continued as though he’d said nothing, “Paul taught a husband should love his wife as much as Christ loves his followers. A man should love her so much he would die for her if necessary, just as Christ died for all of us.”

“Little wonder you put such stock in love.” He grimaced. “And what did this Paul say a wife must do in return for her husband?”

“She must respect him.”

Caros frowned. “A man must die for a woman and all she has to do is respect him for it?”

Pelonia grinned.

“Are you certain this Paul wasn’t a female in disguise? It seems he concocted the rules to lean in a woman’s favor.”

She swatted his arm. “Paul was a great man, blessed with vast wisdom.”

“So were Aristotle, Plato and Seneca. Why should I believe your Paul over the natural order—that woman is born to serve her husband, wanting nothing more than to bear his children?”

“Little wonder we Christians are persecuted for our radical ideas. Men rule the Empire and few of them want to purchase a slave when they can wed one.”

“I purchased you, did I not? Though at three thousand denarii you were less than a bargain.”

“Three thousand…?” Her mouth dropped open. “Why would you pay such a high price?”

His face grew serious. His eyes warmed in the space of a blink. He engulfed her hand in his much larger one and leaned closer until their lips almost touched. “The slave trader threatened to sell you to a brothel, but I refused to allow it.”

Shocked to learn of the degradation he’d saved her from, she grappled for something appropriate to say. She wanted to thank him for his generosity, but her enslavement stole all but the smallest portion of gratitude from her heart. “I…why?”

“I mean to have you for myself.”

She eased away from his hold, instantly missing the warmth of his touch. “The slave trader robbed you. He sold you a woman who wasn’t for sale.”

“My receipt and your presence in my home say otherwise.”

“You confuse me. I’m certain you’d find a more willing female if you applied yourself to the task of looking for one.”

His lips twitched. “I want only you.”

Lucia’s cold warning rang in her ears. “Because I’m a challenge? Or because I’m an innocent?”

The crisp air hummed with tension between them. “Neither and both. Truthfully…because there’s a peace I feel in your presence that I’ve felt with no one else.”

Mystified, Pelonia studied his angular features. His sincerity touched a chord deep inside her, but she found it impossible to trust him. She stood, eager to find the calm that eluded her in his presence. “After these last weeks, Caros, if you sense any peace left in me it’s Christ and Him alone.”

“Nonsense. I’m drawn to you, Pelonia, no other. From the first moment I saw you I wanted you for my own.” His long fingers locked around her wrist, preventing her flight. “I won’t relent until I’ve made you mine.”

The quiet declaration confirmed Lucia’s warning. She shook off his hold and rushed from the garden, his command to return chasing her down the path toward the house. Once in her room upstairs, she shut the door and flung herself on her pallet. Her whole body trembled from the shock of his admission. Her thoughts whirled as she tried to sort out the revelations in the garden. One moment she and Caros had been conversing, the next…

Her skin crawled when she thought of how close she’d come to waking in a brothel. Her father had shielded her, but she wasn’t unaware of the harsh realities a female faced on her own. Shorn of a man’s protection, most women fell into prostitution, or like her, were sold into slavery.

Neither was an acceptable choice, but for the moment slavery seemed the lesser of both evils. Had she been sold to a brothel, she would still be a slave, shamed with no hope of returning to her family. As it was, at least she had her virtue and the dream of freedom.

She curled into a ball. Her mind raced. Caros planned to make her his paramour. What had she done to draw his attention? He couldn’t possibly be drawn to her disheveled and filthy appearance. She’d fought him at every turn. Surely he wasn’t attracted to her less-than-servile nature?

Clasping her knees, she lowered her head. “Lord, where are You?” Straining to hear even the faintest whisper of guidance, she almost wept when she met with more silence. She’d already lost her father and freedom, would God allow her virtue to be stolen as well?

Lucia’s offer rang in her ears. Any hesitation she’d harbored about the timing of her escape vanished. She’d been given the opportunity to flee and she must seek out Tiberia. If Caros sought to claim her, she had no ability or legal right to stop him. Every moment she lingered in his domain brought her closer to ruin.

She had no choice. She must leave tonight.




Chapter Seven


Anxious, Pelonia paced the shadows of her moonlit room. Lucia should arrive any moment with further instructions. Through her room’s small window she checked the lantern-lit yard for the slightest hint of movement. The trainees had been locked in the barracks at twilight. The guards were nowhere in sight, but her stomach clenched with trepidation. If she were caught, and Caros refused to show mercy, she might lose her life.

A dog howled, lending the blackness an eerie quality that stretched her nerves. A knock on the door made her jump.

Pelonia opened the door to her coconspirator. “I’ve brought you some vegetable broth,” Lucia said once the door was secured. “It was childish of you to skip the evening meal. How do you expect to have strength for tonight if you don’t eat?”

“I didn’t consider—”

“No, I figured as much, but I used your stupidity to aid us. I spread the seed you’re feeling ill. When you don’t come down tomorrow, people will believe you’re unwell and passing the day on your pallet.”

“Who will believe such a tale?” Pelonia accepted the fragrant bowl of stewed tomatoes. “Since when is a slave allowed to shirk labor because of sickness?”

The lamp’s glow highlighted Lucia’s severe features. “Who won’t believe it? Everyone is aware you’re the master’s current favorite.”

Pelonia’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. “I hate being the subject of gossip.”

“You’ve been nothing else since the moment the master plucked you from the slave quarters and insisted you stay here in the house.”

She cringed with mortification. Thankfully, her father didn’t have to witness her dishonor.

“The entire household has made wagers to see how long before he tires of you.”

Humiliated, she turned away. “When do I go?”

“Soon. First, you must listen and heed everything I’m about to say. When you leave the house tonight follow the street toward the amphitheater. Just before you reach the city gates, you’ll come to a large statue of Caesar driving a chariot with winged horses. Once there, look for a man with two lanterns. He’s the butcher’s son, Pales. I’ve arranged for him to lead you to your cousin’s home.”

“You’re certain he can be trusted?”

Pausing at the door, Lucia nodded. “Watch for me below your window. I’ll give a birdcall to signal when it’s time.”



Several oil lamps bathed Caros’s study with a warm orange glow. His gaze soaked in the wall mural of the setting sun and Iberian mountains. After all these years, he missed his native land and grieved the loss of his cherished kin.

His father, mother, sisters. Each of them held a revered place in his heart. With a fond smile, he lifted the ancestral statue he’d had fashioned to represent his father. Wise, the epitome of fairness, his father was the best man he’d ever known.

He replaced the carving and chose the one of his mother, the heart of his family’s home. When Caros closed his eyes, he saw her wide smile, heard her gentle voice instructing him to be a man of peace, of honor.

How disappointed she would be to see what he’d become.

He put back the statue with care, then eased into one of the blue padded seats facing the inner courtyard. The illuminated fountain returned his thoughts to Pelonia, a subject never far from his mind.

He winced thinking of the disaster he’d spawned in the garden. By the gods, she must think him a rapist the way she’d fled. The horror on her face when he’d tried to kiss her made him cringe. In the future, he’d master his lust and nurture her trust, not her resistance.

Seeing Lucia enter the courtyard, he sat forward. Why wasn’t the healer abed? He surged to his feet when he saw her look of panic.

“Master!” She ran toward him. “You must hurry. Pelonia, that ungrateful sneak, has fled. I was in my room upstairs when I happened to look out my window. There she was, creeping down the road like a common thief. I told you she’d be nothing but trouble.”

Fear gripped him. “Which way?”

“Toward the city gates.”

Quick steps took him to the bowels of the house. He strapped on a gladius and grabbed up a torch, then raced to the side door and into the night.

The torch held high to guide him, he broke into a run. During the day, Rome was dangerous enough, but after dark the streets crawled with every sort of human vermin.

If anything happened to her…He had to find her.

He picked up his pace. Shouting and bawdy laughter echoed from the street up ahead, but it was the woman’s scream that raised the hackles on the back of his neck.



A grimy hand covered Pelonia’s mouth from behind and dragged her head back against a rock-hard shoulder. A knife blade pressed to her throat filled her with terror. “Be quiet, wench! Someone’ll think you don’t like us.”

Raucous laughter rippled through the drunken gang surrounding her like rabid dogs. Paralyzed with fear, she felt a trickle of blood slide down her neck. The stench of sour mead made her gag. She frantically searched the darkness. Shiny, inebriated eyes leered at her from the shadows. How many men were there? Six? Seven?

Dear God, please help me!

“I want her first,” a deep voice slurred somewhere to her left.

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” another said, the words thick and muddled. Jeering laughter combined with lewd suggestions echoed through the street.

The pack grew bolder. Groping hands snatched at her clothes, pinched her, yanked her braid. The cloth of her tunic ripped, exposing her shoulder to the damp night air.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Unable to move or defend herself, she begged God for mercy.

The giant tightened his hand on her mouth. The pressure against her teeth cut her lip. She tasted blood.

He reached forward with the knife, the metal flashing in the moonlight between her face and the other wolves.

“All of you stand back,” the giant ordered. “The woman promised I could have her first. You’ll have to wait ’til I’ve had my taste.”

What woman?

A flurry of drunken curses and outraged complaints littered the night, but the long knife aided the pack’s decision to slink backward.

“Such beautiful skin,” the giant slurred near her ear. His sour breath churned her stomach. She gagged until she thought she might retch. He moved his hand from her mouth and buried his wet lips against the pulse racing in her throat.

She screamed. Her heel stomped his foot. He loosed his hold and the blade clanked on the stone street. Wild with fear, she jerked free from the drunk and ran.

Threats from her pursuing attackers spurred her onward. Was someone calling her name? Without slacking her pace, she turned a corner, then another and another until she was lost. Too scared to stop running, she pressed on, her lungs burning, her heart pounding.

Rapid footsteps gained ground behind her. The glow of a torch grew larger, lighting the narrow alleyway.

“Pelonia!”

Caros? She faltered, tripped on an uneven stone, felt herself falling.

A strong arm swooped around her middle, hauling her up just as her palms brushed the road. In a seamless movement, Caros turned her around, then pulled her against him. “Are you all right?”





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