“Most definitely,” agreed Valerius.
“What do you think of that, Trajan?” asked Quintus, pointedly, as if he believed this information would anger me.
What Quintus didn’t understand was that I wasn’t like him. I didn’t gain pride or glory by killing in Caesar’s army when I was a part of it. I didn’t seek fame or fortune by conquering other people. It had been a necessity to survive, then it had been a necessity while Julian and I built our own band of allies to wipe Rome clean of men like Quintus. For now, I had to remain close to my enemies, but for the moment I simply couldn’t hold my tongue.
I held his gaze then said, “Drussus will do his best, I’m sure. He’s a good little general.”
Leto snorted at my insult to one of Caesar’s best generals.
“But he doesn’t understand that the Germanic horde we encountered aren’t like the typical enemy we fight against.”
“How so?” asked Valerius.
“For one, they weren’t fighting to defend their own land, to keep us Romans from encroaching on their territory. They attacked Roman provinces and burned them to the ground for a purpose, to showRome that we could be harmed, that we aren’t invincible. They were cunning and strong. They aren’t to be underestimated.”
“What are you saying?” asked Quintus snidely. “That these Germanic barbarians are actually a match for the Roman legions?” He scoffed.
“I’m saying that I believe there will come a time when Rome won’t be the invader. She will be the invaded.”
And I would be at the helm of that invasion.
“Preposterous, Trajan,” snapped Valerius. “There is no power greater than us on this earth. No one can defeat dragons.”
Hubris. That will be their downfall.
I stood from the cushioned seat. “I need to relieve myself.”
I smiled at the tension-filled silence I left in my wake as I stalked across the triclinium toward the open archway that led into Valerius’s house.
To the right, there were voices and the smell of food coming from what must be the kitchen. There was another hallway near the entrance that must lead to the slaves’ quarters. I stalked across the open entrance area and down the hallway to the left, leading deeper into his home.
There were a few small parlors where the hallway ended. To the left there was a large archway, and I could see curtains billowing in the breeze that led out to a terrace. That must be his bedchamber. I took a step toward it, needing to discover the layout and the entrances from the outside garden, when a sound to the right stopped me.
In the opposite direction of his bedchamber, there was a long hall. I couldn’t see where it led or who was making that sound. I walked along the hallway, the oil lamps along the wall flickering as I drew closer. Someone was singing softly.
Around a corner, there was some sort of atrium at the very end of the corridor, far from the center of the house. There were tall, leafyplants surrounding the area, along with decorative white columns in a circular, domed chamber. The sculpture of the goddess Diana on a pedestal at its center marked it as a temple, secluded from the rest of the house. Some Romans built them in their homes, specifically to a patron goddess of their house or family.
But it wasn’t the goddess that drew me closer. It was the siren-like song—a haunting, plaintive melody—that had me treading quietly closer.
When I stepped through the tall palms at the entrance, I found a woman sitting in a kneeling position, rocking back and forth as she sang.
It was Lela. Her voice was uncommonly beautiful. The golden bridle she’d been wearing at dinner lay discarded at her side, a small key still in the lock.
She hadn’t heard me as I approached. She was hunched in on herself, still singing a haunting melody. I didn’t know the Dacian words she sang, but they struck me to the heart. A painful sort of loss pierced my chest, leaving me hollow and bereft. This wasn’t a song simply of sadness, but of longing… for family or home or freedom, I imagined. Perhaps all three. I clenched my fists at the sorrow weaving around her.
One of her hands slid from her lap and fell to the stone floor beside her. I homed in on the metallic tang in the air, my senses sharpening, nostrils flaring. Then the torchlight caught the glistening smear of red on her fingertips.
On instinct, I lunged for her, grabbing hold of her wrist and shoulder. She didn’t resist, listless in my grip. Between her spread knees, her green stola was bunched and stained with another smear of blood.
“What happened?” I demanded roughly.
She’d lapsed from singing to humming, her eyes closed as if in a trance. Her wrists weren’t cut, which was what I’d feared the most atthe first sight of blood. My inner dragon rumbled deep in my chest, a constant vibrating growl that tightened my muscles. My senses were heightened, and I couldn’t stop myself from sliding the fabric covering her lap higher. There was a long thin slash along the inside of her right thigh, blood dripping from the open wound. But it was the line of raised, silvery slashes filed neatly in a long row on both her inner left and right thighs that made my chest ache. Healed scars. She’d done this many times before.
“What have you done?”
I fisted the fabric to try and bunch it higher to see if she’d gone too deep this time and might need sutures. When my hand brushed her skin, she instantly flinched and twisted, swiping a blade toward my face.
I gripped her wrist and she dropped the knife, the blade skittering across the stone. She launched onto her knees and jerked her arm away. I let go quickly.
