A tall figure stepped out of a doorway into the alleyway. Lysander instinctively threw up a shield against the man’s mental invasion and focused his attention on the Praetorian moving slowly toward him. There was just enough light to see that the man wore the hooded garb of a warrior monk. The
bastardo
looked like one of the fanatics the Church had employed during the Middle Ages to eliminate those posing as a threat to the Church’s authority.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Lysander reached for his sword, but an invisible hand stopped him.
“Come now, don’t be so hasty in your wish to die. I propose we settle this dispute
honorably.”
“Praetorians have no honor.” He strained to mentally undo the tight grip on his wrist as he watched the man walk toward him at a nonchalant, deliberate pace.
“Ah, but I’m not just any Praetorian. I do have some honor.”
“Bullshit. If you had any honor, you wouldn’t have violated the woman I was with today.”
“Ah, yes, Phaedra.”
The Praetorian’s thoughts revealed just how much the man was aroused by her. “P
haedra is special. I can’t think of any woman better qualified to bear
my sons.”
Fury blazed through him. The man wasn’t going to get anywhere near her. With a thrust of his hand, he visualized the Praetorian flying backward. Immediately the man’s grip on him was broken. The man stumbled back several feet, and he easily sensed the other man’s amazement.
“Again you surprise me, Unmentionable. You’re stronger than I expected.”
“There’s more where that came from.” He pulled his sword out of its scabbard and he gestured with his fingers for the other fighter to come forward.
“I see.” For the first time, he heard the man’s actual voice. Pleasant and low, it revealed none of the malice he could sense in the Praetorian’s head.
The man suddenly broke into a hard run, the monk’s cloak he wore streaming out behind him as he lunged forward. In the low light, Lysander saw the flash of steel in the Praetorian’s hand, and with a calm that surprised even him, he braced himself for the first blow. When less than three feet existed between them, the other fighter suddenly launched himself into the air and used the building as a springboard to send himself vaulting over Lysander’s head.
The Praetorian’s unexpected move surprised him, and he almost had a sword cleaving him open from the back of his skull downward because he’d been caught off guard. He quickly visualized the Praetorian’s sword missing him, and he heard his opponent utter a soft oath as the sword glanced off his shoulder without leaving a scratch. Without hesitating, Lysander whirled around and dragged the tip of his sword across the man’s midsection in one quick stroke.
Lysander caught a faint mineral scent in the air. He’d drawn first blood. It was little more than a scratch, but the Praetorian’s anger was instantaneous. So the
bastardo
wasn’t so confident anymore. He could hear the furious oaths flying through the man’s head. He curled his lips back in a malicious smile of satisfaction.
“My apologies,” he sneered. “My sword slipped. I trust you’re still able to continue?”
With a low roar of anger, the Praetorian thrust out his hand, and in an instant, Lysander was on his knees, gasping for air. His sword fell to the street with a clang as he instinctively clawed at the invisible fingers wrapped around his throat. The unseen hand around his throat squeezed harder, the air in his lungs slowly disappearing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice shouted at him that he couldn’t pry invisible fingers off his neck. He had to do something else to break free of the Praetorian.
Feverishly, his fingers scrabbled across the cobblestone for the leather grip of his sword. Struggling for air, he tried to see his attacker through his blurred vision. The other fighter stood in a relaxed stance, sword at his side and a smile of contempt on his face. His air almost gone, Lysander slowly visualized the Praetorian stabbing his blade into his foot.
Seconds later, his opponent cried out in pain, and he was free. He scrambled backward to huddle against the wall, desperately dragging deep breaths of air into his lungs. The rage emanating from the other fighter said there was no more time to recover. One hand pressed into the stone formation, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered to one side of the Praetorian.
His breathing still ragged, he swung his sword in a low, sweeping arc at his opponent’s thigh. He missed. An instant later, he had to swing his sword upward to block the Praetorian’s blade. Sparks flew off steel, and he dropped his guard as he fought to stabilize his footing. An instant later, the Praetorian’s sword sliced into the fleshy part of his upper arm. Grunting with pain, he staggered back in a sideways motion, his sword falling from his hand.
Too late, he realized the movement put his enemy on his blind side. The sound of a sword slicing through the air forced him to drop to the cobblestones. Using the last of his reserves, he broke his fall with a cushion of unseen energy then rolled over onto his back. Directly above him, the Praetorian flipped his sword in an expert move and drove it downward.
Clapping his hands together, Lysander trapped the Praetorian’s blade between his palms, barely keeping the sword from piercing his chest. Although his telekinetic ability was drained, he could still read the Praetorian’s thoughts. The man’s jubilant mood infuriated him. The son of a bitch needed to learn not to count his chickens before they hatched. He wasn’t about to call it quits yet. With the cold steel of his enemy’s sword still between his hands, he used all his strength to twist the weapon out of the man’s hands. It flew through the air until it hit the street with a loud clatter.
The Praetorian’s dark growl of anger became a roar of pain as Lysander simultaneously kicked his leg upward and jammed his foot into the bastard’s crotch. One hand clutching his groin, the man sank to his knees and drew in a hiss of air before he met Lysander’s gaze.
“Enough of these games, Unmentionable,” he snarled. “Time to die.”
Once more, an invisible hand wrapped itself around his throat. Choking and gasping beneath the pressure around his neck, Lysander’s hand reached out to his side in a desperate search for his sword. Still nursing his groin, the Praetorian sent him a cold smile as he tightened his grip around Lysander’s neck.
“Good-bye, Unmentionable. I’m certain your woman will be an unbelievably good fuck.”
Not even the man’s taunt was enough to help him free himself of the grip on his neck. Unable to breathe, he fought not to pass out as his fingers scrabbled desperately across damp cobblestones. Where the hell was his sword? The pressure at his throat increased again. Dizzy from lack of air, he slowly sank into a darkness where Phaedra raced toward him with a welcoming smile.
HE caught her up in his arms, his mouth seeking hers in a deep kiss.
Deus
, she tasted
like the Elysium Fields, warm and sweet. He’d missed her more than he’d ever thought it
possible to miss someone. It had been more than two months since he’d felt her warming
his body. His battlefield tent was comfortable enough, but without her curled into his
side, the nights were always cold no matter the time of year. He was tired of war.
Weary of being away from her so much. The minute he could convince Maxentius to free
him of his duties, he was going to take her to the farm her father had given them. There
they’d live out the rest of their days in peace. Lifting his head, he stared down into her
eyes with a sense of dread. It was easy to see the fear in her gaze.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing.” Her forced smile said she was lying. “I’m simply happy to see you. I hate it
when you’re gone for such a long time.”
“While I’m delighted you missed me,” he said as he allowed her to help him remove his
leather armor. “We both know that’s not why you’re frowning.”
“It’s of no consequence. As a general’s wife, I should know that worry is a fruitless
effort.” Her soft sigh illustrated that whatever was troubling her clearly had her even
more worried than usual.
“I’m relieved to hear you do worry about me,” he teased with a quiet laugh.
The remark made her wince, and he frowned. There was an air of vulnerability about her
that bothered him. It was unusual. Cassiopeia was fearless. So much so, that it troubled
him at times. She had stood up to more senators than he cared to admit. She’d even cut
Maxentius down to size on more than one occasion, which fortunately for both of them
had amused the emperor. When she turned her head away, he caught her chin and forced
her to look at him as he arched his eyebrow at her.
“Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“It’s Octavian,” she whispered. “I … he came to visit me.”
“Octavian?” He shook his head in puzzlement. “He’s an old friend. Why would his visit
bother you?”
“That’s what I thought …” Her voice faded into silence.
“Dam
no ut abyssus
, Cass. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“He said you were a fool to serve Maxentius,” she said in a rush. “He said Constantine
will execute the Praetorian Guard when he takes Rome.”
Her fear was tangible as she quickly wrapped her arms around his waist to burrow deep
into his chest. The heat of her penetrated his tunic as he kissed the top of her head.
Dulcis matris Deus
, he knew Octavian had been unhappy with the way Maxentius had been
running the campaign against Constantine, but the Praetorian Guard had pledged their
loyalty to the emperor. Surely, his old friend hadn’t broken that oath.
“The Guard will never throw their support to Constantine. Octavian’s talking treason.”
She lifted her head, and the fear on her face aroused his anger. Not only was the man
talking like a traitor, the
figlio di puttana
had frightened Cass. Anger sliced through him.
Eyes wide in her face, she pressed her palm against his heart.
“He knows where Maxentius keeps the
Tyet of Isis
.”
The words made his blood slide cold and sluggish through his veins. If Constantine
acquired the
Tyet of Isis
, Alexander the Great’s potion would give the usurper the ability
to create his own Praetorian Guard. The possible ramifications of Octavian’s traitorous
intent made his blood pound with fear. The man had to be stopped.
“What else did he say?” he asked quietly, and she looked away from him. “Cass?”
“He said Constantine will ride triumphant into Rome in thirty days’ time because he’ll
use the
Tyet of Isis t
o become a Praetorian.”
“F
otte, ”
he rasped. “He’s not just declaring treason against the emperor, he’s betraying
his oath to the Guard.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to hunt the
bastardo
down and slit his throat,” he growled. She blanched at his
harsh words, and he caressed her cheek. “It will be all right,
mea amor
. I’ll convince
Maxentius to let me have the box for safekeeping. He knows he can trust me, although if
he knew you were aware of it as well, he might not be so trusting.”
“I’m scared, Maximus,” she said in a husky voice. “I love you so much. If I were to lose
you, I wouldn’t want to live.”
WITH each word, her voice grew fainter, and he railed against the knowledge that he was losing her. He called to her, but she was little more than a wraith in his arms. Raw fury roared through him. Phaedra was lost to him again. What had he done to anger the fates? The world suddenly rushed by him, past and present merging into a steady stream of blurred images until, with a choking noise, he was back in the present struggling for air.
In the next instant, he was free, and the Praetorian was lying flat on his back with a stunned look on his face. Dragging in huge gulps of air, Lysander’s fingers found the steel of his blade, and his hand wrapped around the grip of his sword. What the hell had happened? He hadn’t broken the Praetorian’s stranglehold on him. Still gasping, he saw a dark figure emerge from the darkness. The sight of the man’s monk’s robe made him release a quiet groan.
“
Christus.
Not another one,” he rasped as the man came to a halt a few feet away.
“I can assure you, Condellaire, I am
not
the enemy,” the stranger snapped without even looking down at him.
Merda
, the man knew his name.
The Praetorian had scrambled to his feet and was staring at the newcomer with an expression of suspicion, which quickly changed to loathing. With a flick of his wrist, the Praetorian called his weapon to him, the sword flying up from the ground and into his hand. In response, the stranger showed the sword he carried beneath his long flowing cloak. With a slight bow, the Praetorian shook his head.
“You’ll forgive me, Eminence, if I put off this long overdue meeting. I wish to give your execution my full attention.”
“Confidence is good, but too much of it offers one the opportunity to misstep.”
Lysander stiffened at the title the Praetorian had used. That was the honorary title one used with a Sicari Lord. For a Praetorian to use it even with a Sicari Lord was unthinkable. To their enemy, the Sicari were unmentionables. Pagans who threatened their holy order. Why would the Praetorian be so deferential? As quietly as he could, his fingers wrapped around his sword. The movement triggered nerve endings that reminded him how bad his arm hurt. He grunted. His arm wasn’t the only thing that hurt. The inside of his throat was on fire, and his neck throbbed from where the Praetorian had used his mental strength to brutally choke him. He was lucky the bastard hadn’t actually crushed his windpipe. Hell, he was lucky the stranger had come along. He didn’t understand how, but the man had managed to stop the Praetorian from killing him. The physical and mental strain he’d exerted had left him exhausted, but sword in hand, he managed to lurch to his feet to watch the small drama unfolding before him.
