One With the Darkness (8 page)

Livia’s vampire hearing took in the growl of the slave’s stomach at the mention of food. “Not necessary. I will serve myself. But you can find me a short sword and a scabbard.” She motioned the slave to follow her. Her chamber had a great bed covered in goose down mattresses and laid with embroidered bedding. A small table sat next to a carved chest that held her grooming utensils and cosmetics. Three more tall chests held clothing. The carpets were of bold red and blue woven in intricate detail from her native Dacia. Romans did not care much for carpets, preferring their warm floors bare, but carpets reminded her of her roots. On a long table to one side were laid several dishes of simple food: bread still warm from the oven, smelling yeasty, roasted root vegetables from her land beyond the city walls, spicy Lucan sausages, an amphora of wine, olives and their fruity oil, and, for the after-course, some sweet cheese made into a cake.

“What have you been given to eat lately?” she asked her slave.

“Not enough.”

She set her lips. “This is
not
a promising start.”

He looked puzzled at her reaction.

Really, didn’t the man understand the basic tenets of being a slave? “You use no term of respectful address, and your response is surly and not to the point.” That muscle was clenching in his jaw again. She sighed. They must rub along together somehow. “If you can’t bring yourself to call me ‘Mistress,’ ‘my lady’ will do. And the
reason
I ask what you’ve been fed is so I do not give you food to which you are not accustomed. I won’t have you vomiting all over my carpets.” She raised her brows.

His fists clenched, as though it was all he could do to respond. “I was fed gruel when I was lucky,
my lady
, and whatever moldy bread or vegetables were left from what
the Roman army foraged in the countryside. My belly will hold whatever you deign to give me.”

She went to the table that held the array of food and picked up a pottery bowl. He was probably right, since she avoided rich sauces. She used a large silver serving spoon to scoop vegetables into the bowl and forked several sausages into it as well, then tore off a sizable hunk of bread. How much did such a large man eat? She handed it to him. “Start with this. You can have more if you like.”

He began to pick out the sausages with his fingers immediately, wolfing them down as though he was afraid she would take the food away at any moment.

“Wait.” She handed him a round silver spoon from the table. “Go and sit on the carpet next to the table, or kneel, whichever is most comfortable.” His backside might be too sore to confront the pile of the carpet. She poured two goblets of wine and picked out some olives, some cheese and vegetables, for herself. She sat at the table and pushed one goblet over to the side nearest him. He had chosen to kneel. He was still going through his food at a furious pace, chewing and swallowing with a single-minded fervor, though now he used the spoon. She picked at her own food as she studied him. He was indeed a little lean. But he would fill out nicely with proper care and nutrition. She would have to make time to take him to the gymnasium at the Field of Mars. A man like this needed to be active. He scraped up the last juices from his bowl with his bread.

“Would you like more?”

He had that wary look again, as though he didn’t believe she’d keep her word.

“I said you could have more and you can.”

“Yes,” he said, holding out the bowl, then added, grudgingly, “my lady.”

She handed him the goblet of wine before she rose and
filled his bowl again, giving him more meat and cheese this time. “How is it that you speak Latin? Your vocabulary and your grammar are remarkably good.” She was growing used to his accent as well.

There was no answer. She turned with the bowl and cocked her head in question.

“You will not like the answer, my lady.” His eyes met hers. He set down the goblet.

“I did not ask you whether I would like the answer or not.” She handed him the bowl.

“I learned it from Roman slaves my father kept.” His gaze was steady as he gauged her response.

“Well … well, that is interesting. And how did your father come to have Roman slaves?”

“Romans do not always win. The Goths took thousands of Roman soldiers as prisoners after the battle of the Teutoburg Forest thirty years ago.” His expression was blank, but she sensed the satisfaction there. “My father brought them back from one of his trading expeditions.”

“Your father bought slaves to teach you Latin? Why?”

“They were bought to till the fields. Strong backs, though the men were small. They taught me Latin in the evenings because my father thought it would be good to know the language of the people we were born to conquer.”

She drew herself up and was about to warn him that she would not tolerate such insolence when she realized that turnabout was in some sense fair play. Victors and the vanquished changed places time and again over centuries. She sipped her wine in a semblance of nonchalance while she regrouped. “Then I expect you know how slaves are to comport themselves, and will act accordingly, since the situation is now reversed.”

Anger flashed in his eyes before he got control. Perhaps
he, too, realized that turnabout was fair play. “As you say, my lady.”

They ate in silence. He went through his second bowl of food at a more reasonable pace. As he was finishing, Lucius appeared in the open doorway and bowed.

“My lady?” He held out a Roman short sword and a leather scabbard on a wide leather belt. Lucius could procure anything at a moment’s notice. The sword was perhaps thirty inches in length, squat and lethal looking, not elegant but serviceable. This one had a pommel bound with leather strips to improve the grip. Livia rose and took it from Lucius. Would she really give this barbarian a weapon? Decapitation was the one way a vampire could be killed. He wouldn’t know that. But other wounds could cause her pain, and her swift healing would have to be concealed. And she’d have to have the slave killed for attacking her. She didn’t want that.

She took a breath. A sense of inevitability washed over her. She would give him the weapon. It felt as though she had already done so. That strange feeling of having done all this before washed over her again, along with a sense of urgency that there was something she must do.
Remember your purpose
, she admonished herself. She needed a bodyguard to at least look as though he could vanquish her enemies. And she knew with a certainty that had no reasonable explanation that he would not use it against her. She took another deep breath.

“Thank you, Lucius. You may go.”

Her majordomo glowered in the direction of the slave. “My lady …”

“That will be all, Lucius.”

Lucius bowed, a shade reluctantly. “Shall I send Catia to you?”

“Not necessary tonight.”

Lucius backed from the room. Livia turned with the sword and the scabbard and saw the barbarian staring at it, eyes almost glowing. That was not reassuring.

“If you are to be a bodyguard, you must have a weapon.” She had to make him understand the consequences of her trust. “If you misuse it, you will be crucified. That is a painful death.”

“I saw the men on crosses that line the road into the city. A barbaric practice,
my lady.”

She blinked. Rome, barbarous? It was the city of light, casting the beams of civilization into the dark corners of the known world. Well, this barbarian couldn’t be expected to understand Rome. “Then we are clear.” She swallowed and held out the sword.

He put down his bowl and reached for the weapon reverently. He grabbed the hilt, hefted the weight of it, and then slashed the air, once, twice. He held it up, thumbed the edge of the blade, and smiled.

It was the first time she had seen him smile. Not a pleasant smile on the whole.

“A fine weapon, my lady,” he almost whispered, his eyes still caressing the blade.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Short, fit for close work only, of course.”

“But effective. Such a weapon wounded your shoulder, did it not?” she asked with raised brows.

He did not acknowledge her point but held a hand out for the scabbard. “You wish me to wear this at all times.”

“Yes.” At least she thought so.

He strapped the belt low across his hips and thrust the sword into the scabbard. His back straightened, his shoulders squared. He felt like a warrior again, though a slave.
She understood that. She counted on it. It would remind him of his honor.

“I wish to retire. You will sleep at the side of my bed, on that small carpet there.” Could she bear to have all that male animal so close? Would she get any sleep at all?

He cast her a smoldering look that hinted at rebellion. But he knelt on the carpet beside the bed and lay down on his side, one arm crooked under his head as a pillow. She’d have Lucius find a real pillow for him tomorrow. His other hand rested possessively on the hilt of his sword.

“Do you require a cover?”

He shook his head. “This room is warm.”

She made a mental note to have Lucius find at least a light blanket for him. That might help her as well, since it would cover that muscle. She watched the blood beat in the hollow of his throat. The feeling of anxiety that had haunted her all evening came over her again, as though there was something she should do. Feed? But she never fed from her own household. Twin bites on her servants’ necks would soon cause talk, and that she could not afford. Still … there was something niggling at her.

Oh, dear. She was still dressed. She couldn’t go to bed fully clothed. Maybe that was what was bothering her. Normally she wore exotic embroidered night robes from Constantinople. But she had no intention of disrobing before this barbarian. She would simply sleep in her
stola
tonight. And tomorrow she would have Lucius install a screen in the corner so that she might change in privacy.

She thought about how blithely she had told the slave that he would attend her in her bath. That would be expected of a bodyguard. But she couldn’t imagine letting that incendiary gaze rove over her naked body. What a
coil she had gotten herself into. Why had she bought
this
slave?

But it was right, somehow. Indeed, it felt as though she had been searching just for him. Something inside her made her feel that someone, maybe everyone, knew things she didn’t. The whole thing was … disconcerting. Even now he watched her as she unwrapped her
palla
and folded it, then laid it across the bench of her dressing table. Feeling the thinness of the fabric in her
stola
, she walked to the lamps and extinguished them one by one. The fabric, fine as it was, scraped across her sensitive nipples. The creature had her aroused again. She felt full to overflowing, and throbbing with desire. In short, not like herself at all. When the room was dark, she went to her bed and crawled under the richly embroidered wool coverlet. She could see the slave still watching her.

H
E HAD AN
erection for the third time tonight. Gods, could she raise his prick even as exhausted as he was? But the floor was warm through the thick red carpet, and his belly was full of better food than he had eaten in half a year, and rich red wine. She had fed him from her own table, not with scraps or rotten leftovers. The room was suffused with her scent, spicy and exotic. She probably didn’t know that he could see her form clearly through the thin fabric of her tunic as she moved in front of the lamps. Her breasts were full, as were her hips, her waist narrow. The outline of her nipples, taut against the fabric, was almost enough to make him spill his juices.

Fingering the hilt of the short sword, he watched her take to her bed. It was a simple weapon, the hilt bound with leather to absorb sweat from his palms. Practical. Good in tight places like a city. It made him feel like a man again.

Why did she trust him with a weapon? For all her brave talk, she must realize he could run her through and leave her bleeding her life out onto that red carpet. She had no way of knowing it was against the creed of his people to use a weapon against the one who had given it as a gift. What did Romans care for the beliefs of those they conquered? Yet she trusted he would keep his bargain to save his men because he had told her he would. It wasn’t because she was naive. This woman was clever, perhaps ruthless. No. It was because she believed in his honor. … That was a burden in some ways.

Would he defend her? The fact that he’d be put to death on one of those crosses if she died did not weigh with him. It would be worse if he landed back in the slave market, fair game for filth like Graccus or those foul imperial sisters. He didn’t like to risk that. But letting her enemies have their way with her would certainly be satisfying.

Would it?

She’d cared for his wounds, fed him, given him a weapon. Her touch had been gentle even when her words were not. His thoughts were growing muddled. She was a puzzle. But she’d dared to own him, curse her. The only service she’d earned was the service of his cock. Once she’d tasted his skill, she’d beg for more. Then who would be master? He smiled in satisfaction at the thought as the warmth of sleep took him.

A feeling of pressure built inside her. She was too full, as though she were a ripe pomegranate ready to burst in the sun and spill red juices that soaked into the earth. And there was something she should do. About the slave. Where was he? She looked around and saw only writhing bodies lusting after one another. In the center of the room, a fountain spurted water from an artful series of nymphs and randy cupids. Where was she? She didn’t recognize the house, but she recognized the feeling of danger. It lurked here somewhere.

She began stepping over kissing couples, groping for each other’s genitals. Men and women, women and women, men and men. Her search grew more frantic. She couldn’t have lost him, could she? But there! He stood in a niche behind a statue of Venus, and Julia Lavilla was running her hands over his body. That was bad. She had to get him away from Gaius’s sister. Or Gaius’s mistress, whichever you chose to believe. Jergan was holding himself in check. Like a wild beast, every muscle was tight, coiled for the spring. He mustn’t offer the sisters an insult or he’d end on the cross. Now Agrippina ran her hand up under his tunic. Keep your head, Jergan, Livia pleaded silently as she saw a sneer cross his face.