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Authors: Monica Burns

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Would the unmentionable healer be like that? Would she fight him just as fiercely? He was certain she would. The thought excited him. He would be the first to have her, and no one else would touch her until he was finished with her. There was something about Phaedra DeLuca that called to him. It wasn’t just her skills he wanted.
He remembered the way she’d shuddered beneath his mental touch. It had made him rock hard touching her the way he had. She was a prize he wanted badly. Like the rook in a chess game, he was eager to capture her. The only thing standing in his way was a knight and a king. The knight he could finish off easily.

He’d almost succeeded the other night, except for the interference of the king of all unmentionables. Marcus Vorenus. His muscles knotted under his robe. The time had

come for Vorenus to pay for his crimes. The crime of sacrificing a small boy. He would make the
bastardo
pay for what he’d done.

Chapter 18

TIBER RIVER, ITALY OCTOBER 28, 312 A .D.

THE screams of dying men filled his ears as he wheeled his horse about on its haunches
and raced along the rear line of the Praetorians he commanded. His men were being
slaughtered, and with their backs to the Tiber River, there were few options to choose
from when it came to saving them.
Damn Maxentius to Tartarus for destroying the Pontis Milvian. He’d told the bastard
they’d need the bridge if something went wrong. But the incompetent fool had been so
confident of a victory he’d refused to listen. The emperor had ordered the stone bridge
destroyed, and next to the remains, he’d built a flimsy wooden structure that was unlikely
to hold up under the weight of the men, let alone the ration wagons.
As he raced toward the nearest cohort, an image of Cass filled his head. Jupiter’s Stone,
she was going to be a widow despite his promises to her. No. He wasn’t ready to give up
that easily. He wasn’t going to leave Cass or Demetri to the likes of that traitor,
Octavian. He tugged on the reins and the animal carrying him slid to a halt at the rear of
the first company in the cohort.
“Retreat,” he shouted as his prefect turned toward him. A split second later, the man sank
to his knees with an arrow jutting out of his throat. The soft whistle accompanying the
deadly shaft said there were more on the way.
Cak
. “Test
udo.
Now.”
The minute he roared the command, the men threw up their shields and moved quickly
into formation, their armor creating a tortoiselike shell to protect them. The whistling
sound grew louder, and he growled with anger at the arrows flying toward his men. Just
before the projectiles reached him, he threw up an invisible shield to block the arrows
from touching him or his horse. In front of him, several missiles found targets through
cracks in the turtlelike formation, filling the air with more screams of pain, but most of
the men had survived.
“Where’s the centurion?” The din of the ongoing battle was so loud he wasn’t sure any of
the men had heard his shout. A soldier pushed his way out of the small company to slam
a fist against his chest before flinging his arm outward in a salute.
“The centurion is dead,
Legatus
.”

“Not any more he’s not. You’re promoted to the rank of centurion,” he roared. “Now get
these men down to the riverbank and get across the Tiber the best way you can. Regroup
at the Porta Flaminia.”

He didn’t wait for the man to answer as he urged his horse forward to the next small
company. At each group of soldiers, he ordered retreat. The air was thick with dust and
smoke the closer he got to the bridge. Constantine had closed the gap between his army
and Maxentius’s Second Legion, positioning catapults within striking distance of the
front line.
Flaming missiles from the massive weapons sent men scattering like roaches exposed to
light as the deadly balls of fire fell from the sky. With the line broken, it was impossible
to hold off the advancing army. The fighting had not yet reached the river, and he saw
two of his tribunes directing the retreat across the makeshift structure that barely passed
for a bridge.
Men staggered their way across the less-than-sturdy planks, while horses, some with
riders, swam against the strong current in their effort to reach the opposite shore.
Carefully, he negotiated his way through the carnage to where his tribunes were
shouting orders in first one direction and then another. Quinton was the first to see him.


Cak
, what are you still doing here! You said you were going to cross more than an hour
ago.”

“I was detained. How many have crossed?”

“Two cohorts.”
“Two,” he exclaimed as his gut twisted. Less than a thousand men out of almost fifty
thousand.
“Maximus, you must cross the river now. The Praetorian Guard won’t follow anyone but
you. And you need to ensure the
Tyet of Isis
doesn’t fall into Octavian’s traitorous
hands.”
“Maxentius—”
“The emperor is dead,” Quinton shouted, his horse rearing up as a ball of fire hit the
ground near the bridge. “The battle is lost. You must go now. Crispian and I shall meet
you at the Porta Flaminia as planned.”

He hesitated and looked over his shoulder at the chaos behind him. The cohorts he’d
ordered to fall back and cross the river were doing just as he’d instructed. But in all the
chaos that reigned, he doubted many of them would survive the crossing. With a sharp
nod at the tribune, he steered his horse down the riverbank and into the water. The
Tyet of Isis
was the last thing he was worried about at the moment. Praise the gods he’d
managed to convince Maxentius to let him hide the precious box. At least it was safe for
the moment.

Another fireball shot through the air to land directly on the rickety bridge. The sickly
smell of burning flesh and death clung to him like sweat. Steeling himself to look back in
Quinton’s direction, he saw his young tribune struggling to bring his horse under control.
He started to go back when another fireball landed directly on top of his friend.
His gut twisted at the horrific sight. It was too late for his friend. The only thing he could
do was continue toward the south bank and retreat to the Porta Flaminia. From there
he’d be able to take stock of what was left of Maxentius’s army and what sort of terms he
could secure for the men. Shrieks of agony and terror filled the air as he urged his
stallion into deeper water. All around him, men struggled to swim their way to the
opposite shore amidst a growing number of bodies in the water.
Although tired, his large horse carried him safely to the south bank of the river. Here the
chaos was muted. Whether out of years of habit or orders, the men who’d survived the
crossing had fallen into rows of four men across as they trudged their way along the Via
Flaminia back to Rome.
The road that led to Cass and Demetri. They were his sanctuary from all this death and
destruction. Vesta help him if anything happened to either of them. A shout off to his left
made him turn his head, and he saw Crispian riding toward him. The man saluted as he
pulled his horse to a halt then grasped his arm in greeting.
“Praise the gods you’re still alive. When I saw Quinton fall, I was certain you had joined
him in the Elysium Fields.”
“I am apparently harder to kill than most.” They were words he’d repeated to Cass time
and again, but he never intended to say them to her again.
This was his last battle. He was through. It wasn’t just the defeat they’d suffered here, it
was the unnecessary carnage. Most importantly, it was Octavian’s betrayal. The traitor
had broken rank and taken one cohort of the Praetorian Guard and thousands of other
soldiers with him to join Constantine’s ranks. The son of a bitch had pitted brother
against brother today. And he’d not rest until Octavian was dead.
Another shout filled the air, and he turned his head to see Tevy riding toward him. An icy
chill slithered down his back. He’d left the tribune in Rome to monitor the mood of the
Senate and ensure the safety of his family. The fact that he was here meant only one
thing. Something bad had happened. The man brought his horse to a skidding halt, his
expression grim.
“The mood of the city is unstable, and I fear the
domina
and the child are in grave
danger,
il mio signore
.”

His most trusted tribune’s words made him colder than the October waters of the Tiber
had. Hands already stiff from the chilly river crossing, he went rigid as he considered the
ramifications of what had happened. Crispian, his horse fidgeting until he forced the

animal to walk in a tight circle, jerked his head in the direction of Rome.

“If your family is in danger, then mine and the others are as well. We both know what
will happen to the children if Octavian finds them first.”

“He will not let them live,” Maximus whispered to himself.

Demetri and the other children had the blood of Praetorian sires flowing through their
veins. Praetorian fathers who’d taken the potion Alexander had brought back from India.
If they’d inherited any abilities from their fathers, they would be a threat to Octavian and
Constantine. Already his own son was showing great strength when it came to moving
objects and reading minds. He knew Crispian’s children had displayed similar qualities.

“We must get them out of Rome,” Crispian said grimly.

His tribune was right. The children had to be protected at all costs. He met Crispian’s
worried gaze and nodded.

“How many families do you think are still in the city?”

“At least twenty, I cannot say for certain.” The tribune’s features were dark with worry.

“Take what’s left of the cavalry. Get as many of the families as you can out of Rome and
head for Civitavecchia. Take only what you can carry. My wife’s aunt has an estate there.
You’ll find sanctuary there until you’re able to move northward to Tevy’s estate in
Genova.”
“What about you?” Crispian asked in a sharp tone. “You’re the strongest of us all, except
for Octavian. We cannot afford to lose you.”
“No. We cannot afford to lose the children.” He ignored the way every part of him was
shouting for him to go in Crispian’s stead, but his duty was here. “I will lead the men
back to Rome. We should reach the Porta Flaminia in less than three hours. Once there,
I’ll negotiate … terms of surrender.”
Both men stared at him in grim acknowledgment of their defeat. It was the first time in all
the years they’d known each other that they’d suffered such a blow. Still Crispian
hesitated.
“Come with us. Constantine will grant the men immunity. The officers are the threat,
especially those of us who’ve drunk the potion.”
“My duty lies here. Now go.” He sent his old friend a look that told the man it was a
command.

With an abrupt nod, Crispian immediately urged his horse into a gallop. As the tribune

rode away, Tevy waited in silence for his orders.

“Take four men from my personal guard with you back to Rome.” Maximus pointed
toward a small contingent of soldiers a short distance away. “I want my wife and son out
of the city as quickly as possible. You know Octavian will go after them first.”

“If necessary, I will give my life to save them.” His friend’s heartfelt words created a knot
in Maximus’s throat.

“You are a loyal friend, Tevy.”

“We have known each other for many years. I do not believe destiny is finished with us
yet.” With a sharp salute, Tevy rode away to do as he’d been ordered.

As Maximus watched his friend ride off, he prayed that Vesta granted him the wish to see
Cassiopeia and their son again. He turned to face the Tiber River. On the north side of
the water, the fighting had pushed many soldiers into the river. With no place to run, they
were being cut down like animals. Resolve locked his jaw into place. There was nothing
he could do for those poor bastards. But as for the men on the south bank, he could get
them safely back to Rome.
With a loud cry, he dug his heels into the sides of his horse and began the task of
reorganizing what was left of Maxentius’s army. It was an arduous job. More than two
thirds of his Praetorians had either defected or were dead. It forced him to rely on the
centurions to get the companies into order. It took almost four hours to reach the Porta
Flaminia, and when they arrived, a small contingent of men bearing the symbol
Constantine had carried into battle greeted them.
The sight of the banner, with its P and X intertwined on the white cloth, fluttering in the
breeze, made his gut clinch with resignation. He should have done as Crispian said. He
should have returned to Rome for Cass. Instead, he’d sealed his fate as a prisoner that
Constantine would eventually put to death. One of the new emperor’s representatives
rode out to meet him, and he pulled his horse up short, waiting for the rider to reach him.
BOOK: Assassin's Heart
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