There was a small window here where I could look out at other patricians’ homes and beyond the hills. It also allowed me to see down into a corner of the garden. This morning, I’d watched two servants chatting and laughing as they picked olives from the grove, baskets resting on their hips. I wished I could do the same, longing to leave this room, to walk barefoot in the grass, yearning to be far away from here altogether.
I had spent so much time in captivity, accepting my fate, knowing I’d likely die at the hands of Valerius whenever I’d made him angry enough. Then I’d killed him. And something awoke after freeing myself from his cruelty and abuse. I was no longer looking forward to my death. I no longer felt the urge to cut myself to relieve the pain welling up inside my soul. Now, I wanted to live.
Euphemia was right. I had to die to my old self to become new again. My old self lived in a constant state of mourning, preparing to meet Charon on the River Styx. But now, I was reborn, opening my eyes to a world beyond the veil of grief and loss. If I could get out of Rome, I wanted to return to the Carpathian Mountains, to my homeland.
Still sitting on the cool tile next to the bath, I watched the deathriders circle the clear skies high above. There were six dragons of varying colors. I watched a long time, noting the circular patterns they made and their paths through the sky. I also noted when other deathriders replaced them.
Six more climbed toward the heavens, beating their wings hard. They emerged from near the city gates in the direction of the forum.The others I’d watched all day until this afternoon then descended, landing in the same area their replacements had come from.
I wondered if there was some sort of changing of the guard there, whether it was the same dozen, constantly replacing each other. Or if there were more of them. And how could I get to them?
My blood stirred warmly at the thought of using my magic against them. Of destroying the deathriders and escaping the city of Rome.
The sudden sound of heavy footsteps made me stiffen. I scrambled to my feet, realizing someone was headed this way. There was nowhere for me to hide as I heard the sound of boots hitting the floor in the bedchamber, then Trajan rounded the changing screen and toward his bath, toward me.
He barely glanced at me before he stripped off his tunic—stained with blood at the hem—and threw it across the bath chamber. I froze. Anger radiated from him as he stepped down then lunged into the cold water, grunting before he submerged his head entirely.
He came up, still ignoring me as he took a vial of scented oil on the edge of the tiles and poured the entire bottle into his hands. He spread the oil on his shoulders, chest, face, and hair, rubbing vigorously. Furiously.
“What happened?” I asked, breathless and afraid.
A dragon in temper was a beast to be wary of. I’d learned that the hard way. My normal response would be to escape and hide. But I had nowhere else to go, and there was a part of me that already knew that Trajan would not hurt me. His sister’s letters made me see him in a gentler light. His sisters’ love and devotion to their kind brother made me think there was far more to him than this flippant, impulsive patrician.
He scrubbed water down his face, standing waist-deep in the bath. I was sure he heard me, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he finished scrubbing his hands and fingers, the dark stains of blood vanishing inthe water. Then he marched back up the steps, grabbed a long drying cloth, and toweled himself off, his back to me.
I didn’t miss the fact that he was muscular and finely built, but that was the same of every Roman dragon. I no longer saw the muscles of a man as a positive attribute, but only the means by which he could entrap and bind me. Hurt me.
So I remained in my corner until he’d pulled a new tunic over his body, tying a simple belt around his waist, and disappeared back into the bedchamber.
I waited, hearing nothing, but my curiosity got the better of me. Besides, I couldn’t cower in the bath chamber all night.
When I emerged in the main part of the room, I thought he’d left again. But then I saw him standing on his balcony, hands on the banister, his back stiff, muscles locked tight.
Tentatively, I walked up behind him, clearing my throat so he knew I was there, not wanting to surprise him. He didn’t move or make a sound.
I asked again, “What happened?”
He remained still, staring out at the city, gripping the banister with white-knuckled fingers.
“I’ve killed hundreds of men,” he said finally.
There was no pride in his voice. He seemed to be simply stating a fact.
“Hundreds,” he repeated softly. “Not kills made bymyorders, but made by my ownhands.”
I sidled closer and leaned my hip against the stone banister so that I could see his face. For some reason, I longed to see what emotions I might find there. At the moment, it was still tight with fury.
“It was always when we were at war or on the battlefield. Except for…”
He stopped himself from whatever he was going to say.
“Except for what?” I prodded gently.
“It had always been for the good of Rome,” he continued, ignoring my prodding question, “so I’d thought, or in the defense of a friend.” He then heaved a disgusted grunt. “But not today.”
“What happened today?”
Crossing his arms, he faced me, leaning his hip against the banister, mirroring my position.
