“I have always viewed Maximus as the standard by which all Sicari are judged. To put a dagger through his wife’s heart as she was being burned alive had to have taken immense courage. He must have been an extraordinary man,” the Prim
a Consul
said. With a nod of agreement, Angelo folded his arms and rested them on the table as he sent the Prima
Consul
a quizzical look.
“Recently, I came across the writings of Prim
a Consul
Julius Marchio from the midsixteenth century, which I have been reading before bed.”
“Clearly a sedative if you’re reading it late at night,” Atia said with a laugh.
“Sometimes, but last night I read that each Prim
a Consul
is tasked with watching for signs that Maximus has returned to the Sicari.” Angelo’s gaze never left Atia’s face as he continued. “Marchio was convinced the Sicari would never find the Tyet
of Isis
until Maximus was reborn. Have you heard of this prophecy?”
“There are a great many stories, secrets even, handed over when one takes on the mantle of consul.” Her expression guarded, the Prim
a Consul
shrugged. “The story Marchio refers to has been around for centuries.”
“Then you don’t believe the story?” Angelo frowned. “Marchio seemed convinced the story was true, and he even detailed signs to look for.”
“As I said, there are many tales passed on from one consul to another. Some are more plausible than others.” There was the slightest clipped note in Atia’s voice as she straightened and pushed her dinner plate toward the center of the table. “Do I think it possible that Maximus and Cassiopeia will be reincarnated? Yes. I have always believed the soul’s journey doesn’t end with just one life.”
“But what about the signs, il
mia signora?
In his writings, Marchio says an
alieni
will read the Sicari Lord’s coin. Did not Le
gatus
DeLuca’s
domina
read the coin?”
Angelo’s words brought all conversation to a halt as everyone turned toward Atia. Her expression closed off and noncommittal, the Prim
a Consul
gave the man across from her an imperceptible nod.
“Yes, Emma read the coin, but it showed her nothing about the return of Maximus.”
“Then perhaps we are closer to finding the Tyet
of Isis
than we realized, because there are other signs as well.”
“Such as?” As a politician, Atia was excellent at keeping her thoughts well hidden, but the tension flowing from her had an almost tangible quality to it.
“Marchio says a Prim
us Pilus
who is of mixed blood will find the Tyet
of Isis
.”
Angelo’s statement was like a thunderclap in the room, and Phaedra gasped at the possibility of someone with even an ounce of Praetorian blood finding the artifact. The
thought appalled her. The shudder rippling through Atia was tangible, but her reaction was nothing compared to Lysander’s as the glass of wine he held shattered.
Red wine and blood splattered the surface of the table as an oath flew from his lips. Instinct made her reach out to him, but an invisible hand encircled her wrist in a painful vise. He didn’t bother to look at her as he stared at Angelo, who was gasping for air, his face white with fear as his eyes met Lysander’s hard gaze.
“I have no need of the
Curavi
, Phaedra,” Lysander said in an icy voice as his green eye darkened with fury. “Atellus, if you’re questioning the loyalty of my Primus
Pilus
, you’re questioning not only my choice for second in command, but my leadership as well, and that’s something I won’t allow in my guild, small that it is.”
“Let him go, Lysander.” Atia’s voice was firm, but gentle. “He was simply repeating what he’d read.”
Lysander hesitated at the Prim
a Consul’s
words, then with a sharp nod, he released his grip on the other man. A second later the grip on Phaedra’s wrist vanished as Lysander shoved his chair backward in a vicious movement as he stood up. Angelo inhaled several deep breaths as he recovered from Lysander’s invisible chokehold.
Maria, her arm wrapped around her husband’s shoulders, looked frightened, but not so much that she couldn’t muster up the courage to glare at Lysander. His features were like a stone statue, cold and without emotion as he met the woman’s angry look.
“I have every confidence in Marco Campanella. Anyone even
hinting
at the possibility that he’s not Sicari or loyal to the Order will be challenging my authority as Le
gatus
. A challenge I will
not
let go unanswered.”
The quiet words carried a lethal message that said any challenge to Lysander’s authority would not end favorably for the challenger. The unspoken promise was reinforced as he surveyed the faces staring up at him with a deadly calm. Satisfied he’d made his point, Lysander left the table and vanished into the kitchen. Phaedra watched him go with a sense of confusion. His reaction had been completely out of character for him. In his wake, the lighthearted mood had evaporated, leaving everyone somber and
uncomfortable. Still ashen from his chastisement, Angelo turned his head toward the
Primus Pilus.
“I ask
Indulgentia
, Campanella. It was not my intent to question either your birth or your loyalty to the Order.”
“Granted.” Marco frowned as he nodded sharply. “It was the implication in your statement that angered Le
gatus
Condellaire. The Le
gatus
is an honorable man who values the lives and reputations of everyone in his guild, even you, Atellus. It’s something to keep in mind.”
Angelo nodded his understanding as Cleo broke the tension by getting up from the table and collecting dirty dishes. A silent sigh of relief rippled through the group at her action, and everyone quickly followed her example in cleaning up dinner. Reaching for her plate, Phaedra jumped as Atia stayed her hand with a light touch.
“Leave it,” the Prim
a Consul
said quietly. “I wish to speak with you.”
“What about?”
“Lysander sent me a text message about the assault. It’s why I called him earlier. I wanted to know how you were feeling.” The concern in Atia’s voice made her nibble at her lip. The woman had been good to her and Ares since their parents had died.
“I’m fine.”
“He told me you think it was a rogue Sicari. Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure what else he could be.” She shrugged, dismissing the fantastical notions she’d considered earlier.
“When I talked to Lysander, he said you were quite upset.”
“I’m fine now.”
“Are you sure? It’s unhealthy to keep it locked up inside,
piccola mia
.”
“When I’m ready to talk, I will, but not until then.”
“V
a bene,
” Atia said with a sigh of frustration.
Grateful the woman was done questioning her, she picked up her plate along with Lysander’s and retreated to the kitchen to help clean up dinner. In less than fifteen minutes, the kitchen was spotless with everyone wandering off to spend their free time as they wished. Unwilling to go to her room where she’d be left alone with her thoughts, she pulled an unopened bottle of Lambrusco from the fridge and raised it into the air with a jerk of her head to Cleo.
“Want to join me for a couple of drinks out on the patio?”
Eyebrows raised, her friend shrugged her acquiescence. “Sure.”
The night air was unseasonably warm for Rome, but it was the perfect temperature for relaxing under the moonlight. The garden was softly lit with squat black garden lights placed strategically throughout the large area. She opened the wine and set the bottle on the table after filling her glass. Cleo poured a glass as well, then plopped herself down into a nearby lounge chair. Her legs swinging up onto the cushions, she sent Phaedra a
curious look.
“Looks like you took my advice.”
“What advice?”
“Don’t play that game with me. You know exactly what advice I’m referring to.”
Cleo’s gaze narrowed on her. Phaedra avoided her friend’s gaze by taking a drink of wine. It tasted sweet on her tongue, and she was finally beginning to feel warm, fuzzy, and relaxed.
“If you’re asking me if I tried to seduce him, the answer’s no.”
“Then what
did
happen between the two of you?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged and held the wineglass up to study it in the dim light of the patio.
“Like hell it didn’t. Lysander was glued to your side ready to tear anyone apart if they came near you.” Cleo snorted with a scoffing laugh. “So, out with it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She sent her friend a pleading look. “I’m feeling warm and fuzzy right now, and I want to stay that way.”
“In other words, you’re tipsy, and you sound like you’re ready to cry.” Cleo sighed. “You know drinking makes your ability weak. If someone stumbled in here bleeding like a stuck pig, they’d probably die because you wouldn’t be able to do a fucking thing for them.”
Her friend’s comment made her wince. Cleo was right. At this point, she doubted her ability to heal at all. That rogue Sicari had managed to unsettle her more than she wanted to admit. And while drinking had numbed her to the tension making her edgy all day, she knew better than to have more than a couple of glasses of alcohol while on a mission. She set her wineglass down and rubbed her hand across her forehead. Deus, she was a fool. If Atia realized how out of it she was … not going there. She stumbled to her feet.
“Okay. I’m tipsy. But I’m going to bed.”
“Do you need me to come with you?”
“I’m more than capable of getting to my own room without help.”
Cleo arched her eyebrows but didn’t rise from her chair. Taking a sip of wine, the Sicari fighter nodded. “V
a bene!
I hope you have a hangover tomorrow. It would serve you right.”
“You’re empathy is amazing, you know that?”
“You don’t deserve it. You know better.”
“I needed to take the edge off, okay.” She saw her friend lean forward ready to ask questions, and she waved her hand. “Not tonight. I’ll cry and I don’t want to cry.”
“Then go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”
With a nod of her head, she headed toward the kitchen. Inside the large room, she stumbled over one of the floor’s stone squares and almost fell into the kitchen’s wide island. Slowly, and cautiously, she made her way through the hall and then the foyer. The staircase seemed gargantuan as she stood at the foot of the steps. With a grimace, she grabbed the rail and pulled herself upward. Behind her, a soft laugh filled her ears, and fear swept through her. He’d found her. As she whipped around, she lost her balance, but strong arms were there to keep her from falling.
“You’re feeling pretty good right now, aren’t you?” Luciano said with a chuckle. The sight of him filled her with relief. She shook her head.
“I’m doing just fine, thank you.”
She turned back around to head up the stairs when a strong arm wrapped its way around her waist. The unexpected touch made her shrink back as she tried to shove him away. Surprise and concern swept across his face, and he threw up his hands in a gesture of reassurance.
“I was just trying to help. You’re in no condition to climb these stairs alone, and you know it.”
With a nod, she allowed Luciano to pull her into his side and help her up the steps. As they reached the top of the stairwell and turned the corner, Luciano released her to gently guide her with one hand on her elbow. She swayed slightly and leaned into him. He smelled good, but not like Lysander. She sighed.
“You’re a nice man, Pasquale.”
“Ouch, t
hat’s
an insult,” he said with a soft chuckle.
“No. It’s not an insult.”
She stopped him and leaned into him to kiss his cheek. The moment she did, he went rigid, and she saw his gaze fix on something behind her. She turned her head and saw Lysander striding toward them. F
otte
, he was going to read her the riot act for getting drunk. No. She was tipsy. Big difference.
“I’ll take it from here, Pasquale.” Lysander’s voice was low and almost menacing.
He wasn’t just pissed at her, he was furious. Great, another mark against her. The man would wind up hating her before this mission was over. A firm grip captured her elbow and guided her back down the hall. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled at Luciano.
“See you in the morning, Pasquale.”
The man grinned at her, and with a shake of his head, he entered a room close to where he was standing. A moment later, Lysander pushed her none too gently through the door of her suite. She batted his hand away and heard him utter a small noise. Immediately, she turned around and saw the bandage on his hand. She grabbed his wrist and looked at the white bandage for a moment before looking up at him.
“Let me heal this.”
“You’re too drunk to heal anything.”
“Not this little cut.” She bobbed her head at his hand and tightened her grasp then closed her eyes.
“It’s insignificant, Phaedra,” he said quietly as he removed her fingers from his wrist. “I’ve lived through worse.”
The gentleness in his voice said she wouldn’t be able to heal him even if he did accept her offering. His emotional wounds weren’t something she could heal, no matter how hard she tried. Those he had to tend to himself. She abruptly turned away from him to hide the fact that there were tears in her eyes. Although she wasn’t sure if she was crying for him or for herself. Swaying on her feet, she shrugged off his steadying touch and removed her jacket then staggered toward her bedroom.
The
bastardo
could go fuck himself. She was the best healer in the Order, but if he wanted to be a martyr and live with pain, fine. It wasn’t like she cared. Li
ar.
She stumbled over her feet at the thought. Deus, she should have removed her boots a long time ago. The heels were the reason it was so difficult to walk straight, not the fact that her heart was breaking and she was ready to break down into tears.
