Assassin's Heart (43 page)

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Authors: Monica Burns

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“Saepta Julia?” He frowned.

“He intends to …” Tevy, his expression grim, blanched. “He intends to turn her over to
the Nazarene’s fanatics.”

His tribune’s statement sent ice sluicing over Maximus’s skin. If Octavian gave
Cassiopeia to the Church, they’d kill her. The fanatics despised Rome’s religion and
traditions. In the back of his mind, he heard a soft whisper. Cassiopeia. Eager to touch
her, even if only with his mind, he reached out for her with his thoughts. As his mind
touched hers, the panic raging inside her was overwhelming. The images flowing
between them only heightened his fear for her. Octavian climbing a makeshift podium.
Bundles of wood forming a pyre. As best he could with the threadbare contact he’d
achieved, he reassured her that he was coming for her. Her panic eased and as the
thread between them unraveled, her courage made him proud. He snapped his head in
Tevy’s direction.

“Pull Titus and Vidal from the ranks. We’ll need them.”

“They’ll—”

“Get them, now.”

He didn’t wait for Tevy to obey the order. He simply tugged at the reins of his horse and
sent the animal off at a gallop toward the mounted soldiers Constantine had posted
outside the Flaminia gate. He returned moments later with two horses for the two
soldiers Tevy had pulled from the ranks.
“I don’t care who tells you to stop,” he said grimly as he met the gazes of the three men
watching him. “You stop for nothing until I tell you to. We ride to the Saepta Julia. Tevy,
if something happens to me, you know what to do.”
Maximus urged his horse into a gallop and raced toward the Porta Flaminia. In minutes,
they were inside the city, but the crowded streets slowed their progress. Desperate to
reach Cassiopeia, he shouted for people to make way. They did, but far more slowly than
his soldiers would have.
Their snail’s pace created a terror inside him he’d never experienced before on the
battlefield. What if he didn’t reach her in time? He fought back the fear and pushed his
horse forward. He would reach her. He wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop him. As they
drew closer to the Saepta Julia, the crowd thickened and became impassable by horse.
He could see the dome of the Pantheon, and he remembered the alleyway he had used
when he’d moved the
Tyet of Isis fr
om the Temple of Vesta. He glanced over his
shoulder.
“Vidal. Stay with the horses,” he snapped. “Tevy, Titus. Rally to me.”

He was off his horse in one swift move to aggressively push his way through the crowd
toward an alleyway flowing into the Via Flaminia. With Tevy and Titus on his heels, he
made his way around the back of the Pantheon to the alleyway he’d visited only a few
days ago. Here the crowd flowed steadily into the square, but there was less traffic.
It made it easier to move forward, and the closer he came to the square at the Saepta
Julia, the easier it was to hear brief snippets of one person talking followed by the roar
of the crowd. Focusing his thoughts, he reached out to touch Cassiopeia’s mind. He
found her easily, which told him she was very close to him. As he continued down the
alley, the crowd thickened again, and her fear grew stronger.

“I know you can hear my thoughts, me
a amor
. I’m here. Listen to me carefully, me
a kara.
I need you to show me exactly what you see. All of it.”

Her fear rushed at him like a wild animal frantic to flee a threat. One hand braced
against a building wall, he fought to remain on his feet in the face of her terror. By the
gods, he was going to have Octavian’s head for what the bastard was doing. Once more,
he pushed through her terror to reach the part of her mind he could reason with.

“Cassiopeia, enough. Listen to me.”

Even when talking to her directly, he’d never been so harsh, but it caught her attention
and her fear eased somewhat. Relief slowed his heart rate, and he rubbed the leather of
his arm bracers across his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes.
“I’m here, me
a amor
. Now concentrate. Let everything you see fill your mind. I want to see what you’re seeing. I need to know where Octavian and his men are. Slowly, k
ara,
slowly.”
As he tried to calm her with his thoughts, his head filled with images of the market
square that surrounded the Saepta Julia. Once a place for Roman citizens to vote, the
building had become a market, and an unruly mob filled the square. Octavian was
clearly inciting the crowd as he saw an image of the traitor pointing and shouting. The
images shifted and he saw three Praetorians at the entrance to the square, then three
more at the foot of the platform where Octavian stood. His thoughts pulled away from
her, but her terror returned, and he reached out to soothe her.
“I’m coming, me
a amor
. Just a few more moments. I promise.”
Slowly and gently, he
retreated from her thoughts. He looked over his shoulder at Tevy and Titus.
“There are three of Octavian’s men near the Via Flaminia and three more are with him at
the pyre where he’s holding Cassiopeia.”
“If this crowd is anything to judge by, the soldiers at the Flaminia entrance won’t be able
to reach us easily,” Tevy said. Although his friend’s abilities weren’t as strong as his,
Maximus knew he could rely on Tevy’s assessment as he focused his abilities on
maintaining his connection with Cass.

“Octavian has put the crowd in the mood for blood.” He jerked his head toward the
square. “We must move quickly.”

Without care for anyone in his way, Maximus began pushing his way through the crowd
toward the square. He had just reached the square when he heard Cass scream. He was
out of time. Ruthlessly he shoved people aside as he fought his way toward the platform
he’d seen in Cass’s thoughts. He’d already used up most of his ability at the river, and he
needed to conserve whatever he had left to save Cassiopeia.
Another shrill scream echoed out over the noise of the crowd. It was one of abject terror,
and as his mind connected with hers, he saw what she saw. Horror barreled through him.
The image of flames curling among the brush beneath Cassiopeia’s beautiful feet turned
him into a madman as he plowed his way up the steps of the platform he’d reached. A
Roman soldier stood at the top of the stairway, his sword drawn.
The soldier was no match for Maximus’s speed and skill. In a blur of movement that
reflected the strength of his special ability, Maximus pulled his blade from the scabbard
at his side. The blade had barely left the scabbard before it took a diagonal course
across the man’s stomach and chest in one fluid stroke. As the man fell, Maximus heard
Cassiopeia scream again, and he pushed the man off the stairs into the crowd. No sooner
had he stepped onto the platform than another soldier charged at him. He neatly side
stepped the man and sent his blade deep into the man’s chest. As the soldier fell,
Maximus saw Octavian calmly observing the square where Cassiopeia was tied to a
burning pyre.
Raw fury strengthened his muscles as he charged forward. A hard, invisible wall stopped
him just short of Octavian’s back. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he sank
to his knees. Cassiopeia’s screams were louder now, pain drowning out the fear in her
cries. Maximus jerked his head in her direction and saw flames snapping at the hem of
her gown. He looked up to see Octavian smile cruelly as he drew his sword.
“It appears you’ve arrived too late, Maximus. As you can see, your pretty wife has been
tried and found guilty of heresy. But I’ll do you the kindness of sending you to your death
first so you can meet her in Tartarus.”
“Bastard,” Maximus cried as he lunged forward. The moment he hit the unseen barrier,
he drained what was left of his abilities to break through the invisible wall between him
and Octavian. With a vicious thrust, he buried his sword in the man’s thigh just below the
hipbone then tugged the blade free. Cassiopeia’s screams were now shrieks of agony. He
instinctively turned in her direction and failed to see Octavian swing his sword. The first
thing he felt was a blow to the head. He staggered backward, the side of his face
throbbing. He tried to wipe the blood off his face to see better, only to realize he no
longer had an eye.

LYSANDER flung himself out of the chair with a loud cry. The scarred side of his face hurt like hell. He gently touched the area then looked at his hand, fully expecting to see blood covering his hand. When he didn’t, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Il Christi
omnipotentia.
This dream had been a little t
oo
realistic for his taste. He blinked the sleep out of his eye and glanced at the watch on his wrist. Oh-eight-hundred. He groaned as he

saw the three empty wine bottles on the table. It was just a hangover.

Last night he’d been miserable as hell, and he’d decided to bury his problems in alcohol. It hadn’t eliminated them. It had just made his head hurt. In fact, his entire body ached like he’d fought half a dozen Praetorians. That’s what he got for sleeping in a chair all night. He grimaced as he pushed himself up out of the seat and rubbed the back of his neck in an effort to ease the stiffness.
The briefing the day before yesterday had produced nothing new in the way of information, and he’d decided to give the team a breather from the mission. Emma and Atia were still trying to resolve the puzzling inscription on the metal plate they’d found in the Circus Maxentius, and the computer was still processing all the digital images the team had taken of various buildings around the city. Until those two matters were resolved, there was little anyone could do except wait.
Tension was running high with his secret now common knowledge, and he’d recognized the need for everyone to get used to the idea that he had Praetorian blood running through his veins. It had been at least sixty, maybe seventy, years since a Praetorian had left the Collegium to join the Order of the Sicari and sire children.
The image of the first leader of the Praetorian Collegium filled his head. Had Phaedra recognized Octavian as Nicostratus? Jaw clenched, he prowled a path between the chair and the doorway of his balcony. What the hell did it mean? It meant nothing. The voice in his head argued fiercely. It was just a dream. The side of his head still throbbed, and he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead in an attempt to ease the pain.
His head was aching just like he’d had a sword buried in the side of his face. He grimaced. It was the alcohol talking. That’s all. He’d simply been so deep in the events of the dream that he was experiencing the physical sensations that came with the images. His hangover had just made the pain seem real. One hand sliding through his hair, he tried to ignore the tiny voice that was growing louder in his head. He didn’t want to admit it, but the voice grew stronger.
Maybe Phaedra was right.
The thought made him release a dark growl. That was crazy thinking. The dreams were just … memories.
Christus
, he was totally losing it. The only reason he was starting to think like her was because he was looking for a reason to go to her. If only he’d had the courage to tell her the truth from the beginning.
If he had told her everything, maybe things would be different. T
hey wouldn’t be any
different, you stupid fuck. All you did was delay the inevitable.
Phaedra’s reaction two nights ago had made it clear that it wouldn’t have mattered whether he’d told her the truth sooner than later. Even in the study when he’d tried to explain … explain?

What had there been to explain? She’d been right. Omitting the truth was the same thing

as a lie. But he had good reason for not telling the truth. There was a monster inside of him. It hovered just beneath the surface. If it ever got loose … He shuddered as he remembered the look of fear on Phaedra’s face when he’d gotten angry.
Shame rolled over him. Only a Praetorian would have lost control like that. Honor was a trait the Sicari prized above all other things. And his behavior had been far from honorable. He closed his eye. He wanted to hit something. The gym. He’d go and expend his energy on a punching bag. A hard knock on the door made him jerk. He’d not had any visitors over the past couple of days, and aside from team briefings, he’d kept to himself.
“Come in,” he commanded in a sharp voice, suppressing the hope that it might be Phaedra trying one last time to reason with him. Cleo’s appearance was a stark disappointment.

“So how long are you going to hide out in here?”

“I’m not hiding. I’m giving people time to adjust.”

“Adjust to what? The news that you’re half-Praetorian or the fact that the man who raped your mother is a monster?” Her blunt words put him on edge.

“Both.” He spun away from her and moved to the balcony door to look out at the Colosseum.

“That’s a load of crap. You’re acting like you’re some sort of pariah. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were ashamed to be seen.” Her words drove a spike of tension into his shoulders, but he didn’t answer her. She drew in a sharp breath. “You are ashamed. Of what?”
“Don’t try to analyze me, Cleo.”
“Fuck. If either one of us needs therapy, it’s me. But you … you have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re not responsible for who your father is, and you sure as hell haven’t ever acted like him.”

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