Surrender to the Roman by M.K. Chester Read Free Book Online Page B

the first time, Ademeni saw a kinder spirit. “No one asks Rome to come, child. That is true enough. Can you not see that you are outnumbered? Roman widows matter in Rome.”
    The gentle words hurt more than if Flora had beaten her with a switch. Ademeni glanced over her shoulder at the market. These people cared little about what had happened in Dacia, except that their husbands, sons, brothers and lovers had perished. She was their natural enemy and had insulted them by insisting on her own ways.
    Her eyes widened as her heart strained to accept this change in thinking. She had done this to herself, by being herself. If they knew of her stature in the royal family, she would never escape with her life. She bowed her head and moved toward the road, pushing the fresh fear just revealed to her under the surface, where it bubbled.
    “I see that you understand,” Flora said, heaving a sigh. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do. You’d do well to bear that in mind.”
    * * *
    Marcus drew his hand across his freshly-shaved jaw. Once the house had emptied this morning, he’d put on new clothing and delayed going to the barracks.
    He took a bite of bread and fruit from the kitchen before making his rounds. The house appeared to be in decent repair. Flora would never allow one stone to fall atop another, although the gardens had gotten the better of her. Business had been well handled in his absence.
    He sighed, as that business now included more than the house. He had spoken to Flora about being kinder to Ademeni, to give her some time to adjust to a new life. She’d listened, but given no indication of how she’d respond. To a lifelong slave his behavior toward Ademeni must seem more than puzzling.
    In fact, he’d vexed himself.
    At least they’d gone to the Forum to shop this morning.
    As he neared the front entrance, his gut clenched around bittersweet memories. Julia had decorated the atrium, calling in a local artist of some renown to paint the frescoes on either side of the room. The sea-themed mosaic on the wall facing the door had taken weeks, or so she’d told him, since he had been away at the time.
    Even in the hazy morning light, their spirited colors should have cheered him. One painting reflected the history of Rome, the story of the empire, from the founding through the first Caesar. On the opposite wall a vivid picture of the afterlife, to which Julia had traveled before him, displayed the hope and beauty of life after death.
    Sifting through the shadows of Julia’s life, Marcus entered the first room off the right side of the atrium, where the household altar waited. He saw signs of use and surmised that in his absence Lucia had kept the daily rituals.
    He sparked the incense and left an offering of grapes. On his knees, he recited short blessings for the gift of food and the safety of those who lived in his home. Lastly, he venerated his ancestors, in order of their death.
    With the last breath of his prayer, his gaze strayed to the carved likeness of Julia that stared at him from above the altar, for she had been the last of his kin to depart the earth.
    A twinge of regret forced his eyes closed. How memories thinned with time. Five years after her death and he’d barely known her. Their time together had been too brief, the marriage arranged with little courtship and too much fanfare, consummated only days before he’d been posted to Dacia the first time.
    They had been strangers in life and in death.
    As he finished his rusty incantations, the heavy door creaked open then thundered shut. The shuffle of feet passed—Flora and Ademeni returning from the Forum.
    His pulse quickened. Gods save him, he’d enjoyed sparring with Ademeni. Tertullian would have broken her over his knee like a twig and taken great pride in the accomplishment. He’d expected Marcus to feel the same way. Marcus had expected to feel the same way.
    Had it not been this particular woman, he might have.
    A woman’s voice cried,