Beast of Caledonia

Kate Poole

In an ancient time, in an ancient land, their worlds collided. Can their love survive? Can they?

Sara is the daughter of the emperor’s legate in Caledonia, the Roman name for Scotland. Annachie is a Pictish warrior captured by her father’s soldiers and made a slave. Their friendship grows into a love neither of them can even acknowledge, much less consummate.

When her father finds them in what he thinks is a compromising position, he gives Annachie to a notorious slave trader and takes Sara back to Rome. Thinking that she will never see Annachie again, Sara agrees to become a Vestal Virgin. But six years later, her world is turned upside down when the games in the Coliseum feature the renowned gladiator, the “Beast of Caledonia”. Annachie!

Only for him would Sara forsake her vow of chastity and risk her life. And when she faces the ultimate price for loving him, only Annachie may be able to save her.

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Beast of Caledonia

ISBN 9781419928505

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Beast of Caledonia Copyright © 2010 Kate Poole

Edited by Helen Woodall

Cover art by Syneca

Electronic book publication July 2010

The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

BEAST OF CALEDONIA

Kate Poole

Dedication

To Anna,

I miss you every day, girlfriend.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Colleen McCullough and HBO for helping me with my research. (I’m much too lazy to do all the research they did!) I know that I have played fast and loose with some of the realities of ancient Rome, but please cut me some slack—it is fiction, after all. If you want an accurate account, I highly recommend Ms. McCullough’s amazing, excellent Rome series.

I would also like to thank my reader, Toni, for all her comments, suggestions and encouragement. You helped me more than you will ever know. Thanks also to my poor, unpaid publicist, Chris E., for the encouragement and for working on that potential book-signing opportunity. “E.V.” won’t know what hit it!

Thanks to Helen Woodall, Editor Extraordinaire and Queen Frog, for not giving up on me when it took me three years to submit my second book!

And last, but never least, great big thanks to the “Tarts”—Kathy, Kate, Christie and Janet. Without all of you, I would still be spinning my wheels.

Chapter One

Rome, 149 A.D.

“Hurry, Sara, we’ll be late.” Ocelina tugged at Sara’s arm, forcing her to almost run to keep up with the girl.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Sara replied, even though she wished to drag her feet.

They turned a corner and Sara saw the Flavian Amphitheater in the distance. More “games”, she thought. How could anyone call men fighting, maiming and killing each other a game? Sara hated the games. She tried to look down at her lap or close her eyes to avoid seeing the wounds and the death throes of the combatants. But she couldn’t close her ears to the howls of dying animals, the cries of injured men, or the cheers of the bloodthirsty crowd. And she couldn’t keep from smelling the blood and excrement that spilled into the sand.

But twelve-year-old Ocelina loved the games. It worried Sara that one so young could be so insensitive to violence and death, even though it was the way most children were brought up in Rome.

“Why are you in such a hurry, Lina?”

The girl stopped and faced her. “What? Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The Beast is going to fight today. I saw the advertisement painted on a wall near the Forum.”

“The only wild beast around here is you, Annachie.”

Sara shook her head to erase the memory. “Who is the Beast?”

Ocelina stared at Sara, her mouth agape. “Where have you been? He is only the greatest gladiator in the Empire. He has never been defeated. I’ve heard that he often refuses to kill his opponent, even if the sponsor of the games tells him to, unless the man is so maimed the Beast knows he will not live. Or, only if he has to, to avoid being killed himself. I wonder what he’ll do if the emperor orders him to kill someone.”

There was something Sara had never heard of—a gladiator with principles.

Ocelina leaned close to Sara and, behind her hand, she said, “And they say he fights naked.” Lina giggled. “I have never seen a naked man before. Have you?”

Yes, I have, Sara thought.

“Why were you naked when my father’s soldiers brought you here?”

“My people fight naked to show the enemy that we do not conceal a weapon.”

Again, Sara fought back the memories. He must be dead. Slaves do not live long in the arena, nor under Septimius’ care. Do not torture yourself with thoughts of things that cannot be. She chose not to answer Ocelina’s last question, saying instead, “That can’t be true, Lina. He must protect his…his genitals in some way.”

Ocelina giggled again. “A pouch, Sara, only a leather pouch.” Then she sobered. “But they also say he is quite ugly.”

Sara breathed a sigh of relief. It isn’t him, she thought, for he is not at all ugly.

By this time, they had come to the great portals of the Coliseum. Statues of the gods loomed in the arches above them, and the canvas awnings rippled in the morning breeze. Sara and Ocelina made their way down the short flight of steps to the area reserved for the six Vestal Virgins, the priestesses of the goddess Vesta. Unfortunately for Sara, their seats were just above the high wall separating the arena itself from the spectators. If she had a mind to—which of course she didn’t—she could almost reach down and touch the heads of the fighters. She wished she could move much higher up and farther away. Or better still, stay home in the shaded, peaceful garden in the Casa delle Vestali, the House of the Vestals.

Soft cushions had been placed on the hard stone bench for them to sit upon. They took their seats and waited for the emperor’s entrance.

Before long, with a flourish of trumpets, he made his entrance. The roar of almost fifty thousand spectators seemed to shake the very stone beneath Sara’s feet. Antoninus Pius turned to his left and right, saluting the crowd. The Vestals, senators, and other dignitaries bowed to him. When Sara raised her head, Antoninus nodded to her.

She was not surprised that he remembered her. She thought back to the one and only time she had met him…

* * * * *

“Your daughter is a bit long in the tooth to become a Vestal, Quintus.”

Sara stood before the emperor, her hands clasped together in front of her, staring at the floor.

“Yes, Sire,” her father replied, “I know she is. But I ask only this for the service I rendered to you and to the Empire while in Caledonia. I would be forever in your debt, Sire.”

“And you are sure she is a virgin?”

Sara’s face burned with shame. She would never forget the feel of the aging physician’s fingers inside her, probing and poking, and finally asserting her virginity. She knew instinctively that the man’s examination had taken longer than necessary.

“It has been confirmed by a physician, Sire. I have the letter here.” Her father handed the emperor a small roll of parchment.

“Why not arrange a marriage for her then? I can think of any number of men who would jump at the chance to join your family, Quintus.”

“She is…scarred, Sire. From an attack by a boar.”

“Quintus, Quintus, you are trying my patience now. You know that a Vestal must be unblemished, in every sense of the word.”

“I know that, Sire.”

“Then I am sure we can find her a husband who would not be choosy.”

Sara held her breath. Her father knew what would happen if he forced her to marry.

“Sire, there is another reason I-I beg you to let her join the Temple.”

“Yes?”

She heard the tears in her father’s voice as he replied, “Since the death of her mother, she is all I have left. I do not want her to try to kill herself again.”

With that, Antoninus consented.

* * * * *

All in all, the emperor was a kind man. Sara only wished that he did not require her attendance at the games.

Almost as soon as Antoninus took his seat in the royal box, the trumpets sounded again and the chariot parade began. It was custom that the sponsor of the games led the parade, and Sara felt a chill run through her when she saw who it was—Marcus Septimius, the slaver to whom her father had given Annachie. Oh, how she hated the sight of him. What had he done with Annachie after he took him away? she wondered. What did Annachie have to suffer in all the years since he and she were parted?

Sara scanned the group of men closely. Annachie was not among the fighters. Was that a good sign or a bad one? If Septimius was here, but Annachie was not, had the slaver sold him to someone else? Or was he… Sara would not let herself think of that possibility.

The chariots now stretched around the arena, a sea of golden-uniformed charioteers and purple-cloaked gladiators. The gold embroidery on the contestants’ cloaks caught the rays of the sun, as they stepped down from the chariots and approached the emperor’s stand.

As one, the thirty men cried out, “Ave, imperator, morituri te salutant! Hail, emperor, greetings from men about to die!” Then the stars of the day left the stage.

The slaughter would begin later in the afternoon, but for now, the spectators had to be warmed up.

First, came the paegniarii, the mock-fighters who shed no blood, but whetted the appetites of the crowd. Then came the lusorii, who fought as gladiators did, but used only wooden weapons. Sara could tolerate these displays, but she knew the worst was still to come.

As the day wore on, the sailors stationed at the top of the arena pulled the massive awnings across the seating area of the Coliseum to shade the spectators below. It provided some welcome relief from the hot sun of Junius, but Sara longed to leave and return to her cool room in the temple. She knew the day was far from over.

Criminals were brought into the arena and tied to stakes, with raw meat hanging from a rope around their necks. Then big cats from faraway lands—tigers, lions, leopards—were released and, attracted by the meat, tore the hapless men apart. While the bloodlust from their meal was still on the animals, gladiators-in-training entered the ring and methodically slaughtered all of them, and any criminal who might still be alive.

After this, the spectators took a break for a light meal. Sara could not eat a mouthful. It sickened her just as much to see those beautiful animals killed as it did the men…and the occasional woman.

Finally, the gladiators themselves came out on the floor of the arena. They gathered before the emperor again and drew lots to see whom they would fight. But there was one man among them who was dressed in a simple toga, not as a gladiator.

“Ocelina, who is that man? Do you know him?”

“Yes, he is a trainer of gladiators, Milonius Bato. Strange, he is drawing lots with the men who will fight, instead of his gladiator. I wonder why that is. Sara, do you see the Beast anywhere?”

“Considering I don’t know what he looks like, how could I tell?”

“I told you, he’ll be naked.”

“Well, I don’t see anyone there who is naked, so perhaps the advertisement was wrong and he is not fighting today.”

“Merda, I wanted so much to see him.”

“Ocelina! Such language.”

And once again, the bloodshed began as the day dragged on. The orator announced the names and nicknames of each gladiator as they took to the floor of the stadium. The African Avenger, Jupiter’s Hammer, The Germanic Warrior, The Terror of Gaul. The crowd cheered for their favorites and booed the opponents. Some of the fighters hissed or made rude gestures to the spectators, which always brought a laugh or a raucous rejoinder.

Finally, there was only one match left. Sara could almost feel the crowd’s eagerness as muted conversations began all through the arena. Even the emperor was leaning forward, seemingly in anticipation.

Three men entered through the gate below the emperor’s box—just one of the gates that led to the underground cells in which the slave-gladiators were kept before their fights. The first man Sara saw was Marcus Septimius. Sara felt sick at the sight of the man. He was still the fat, slovenly pig who had come to the fort in Caledonia looking for slaves. He had asked Sara’s father to let him marry her. Thankfully, her father had said no.

The second man was the trainer she had seen earlier. The third was the trainer of a renowned gladiator who would be one of the contestants in the last match of the day. The three men all turned to face the emperor’s box, bowed, and, as all the other trainers had done throughout the day, conducted the probatio armorum, the testing ceremony. Marcus Septimius presented the weapons the last pair would use, then each trainer tested the other’s deadly instruments for sharpness or weight. They seemed satisfied that all the weapons were lethal enough, for they nodded before they went back through the gate to the cells.

Again, the trumpets sounded and the gate clanged open. The orator introduced the first gladiator to enter—Terranus, The Scourge of Sardinia. Sara had seen him in the arena many times and he always won his contests. Sara shuddered. Even from this distance, the man frightened her. He was so big and scarred, and so very dangerous to his opponents. Sara pitied the man who would have to go up against him in the next few minutes.

The crowd jumped to its feet, wildly cheering or booing. The orator raised his hand for silence, and waited for the spectators to settle down. Then he announced the final opponent of the day. “Citizens of Rome, I give you the Beast of Caledonia!”

Caledonia! That is what the Romans called it, but Annachie’s people called it Pictland.

It was too much of a coincidence and Sara held her breath, waiting.

A man entered, tall and muscular. His long, sun-streaked hair flowed down his back. He was completely naked but for the leather pouch Ocelina had described attached to a thin leather strap around his waist. Sara noticed more than a few women around her eyeing appreciatively his tight, round buttocks…as she found herself doing too.

She tore her gaze away, upward to his broad, strong back. Scars crisscrossed his sun-darkened flesh. The gods only knew how many times the man had been whipped. The memory of her father’s soldiers whipping Annachie came back to her in a sickening rush.

Then the man turned around. The roar of the crowd brought Sara’s mind back to the present. The spectators were all on their feet, cheering wildly. Sara was glad, for it meant that the gasp she gave could not be heard above the din. She was on her feet too, but for a completely different reason.

Annachie!

Chapter Two

Annachie had waited in his cell during the probatio armorum. Not for the first time he marveled that he was still alive. Why, after months of training and so many years of fighting, did he still cling to this worthless life of his? How many times had he thought how easy it would be to just lie down and let his opponent end it all with one stroke of an axe or one thrust of a sword?

Finally, he concluded that his instinct for survival was just too strong. At the last moment, when death at the hands of his opponent seemed imminent, he would fight back and win.

And the hell that was his life would continue.

Bato had many other gladiators just waiting to take Annachie’s place. Most of them could not shine while they remained in his shadow. He could feel their anger and jealousy. For that reason he kept mainly to himself. Only a few of his fellows had even attempted to speak with him.

And Septimius had many other men and boys to play with. Annachie should have killed himself after the first time the disgusting pig violated him. But to his shame, his phallus had hardened and he had shot his seed into the man’s slobbering mouth. Then Annachie had come again when the man had forced himself inside him, further adding to his disgrace. For six years now, the abuse had continued, and even though Annachie could not control his traitorous body, he was able to distance his mind from it. He thought of home—of running through the hills hunting deer and wild boar, fishing in the cold swift-flowing rivers, of the clan gatherings at Beltane and Samhain. But he wouldn’t let himself think of his family…and he would never let himself think of Sara.

Sara. Since he had been brought to Rome, when his time was his own, he could not stop thinking about her. Her father had been planning to return to this city when the emperor’s wall was completed, and it was almost finished when Quintus had given him to Septimius.

She must be married and have young children by now. Was she in Rome, or did her husband take her off to some distant city or province? Wouldn’t it be ironic if she were back in Caledonia, while he was here—

The cry of the announcer interrupted his thoughts. “Citizens of Rome, I give you the Beast of Caledonia!”

Annachie rose and made his way slowly up the dirt ramp and out into the arena. He had to admit it was an impressive sight. To think that men could build a stone structure this big. But that had been the only thing he had found impressive about Rome. Sara had been right about the city—it was overcrowded, dirty and stinking. Oh, Sara, I hope you are in my homeland, where the air is pure and there is room to run free.

He turned in a circle, surveying the crowd. Most of the men booed and jeered at him, but many of the women smiled and some even licked their lips. He found it strange that Roman women were as bloodthirsty as their men. Were they imagining his death, or were they wondering what it would be like to lie with him? Throughout his travels to far-off lands with Septimius’ fighters, many women had tried to pay the slaver for Annachie’s services. Annachie had refused them all. There was only one woman he wanted…and she was the one he could never have.

His opponent, Terranus, stood before the emperor’s box and gave the usual salute, “Hail, emperor, greetings from a man about to die!” Annachie looked Antoninus over but refused to salute him. For one thing, the man was nothing to him, and for another, he had no intention of dying this day.

As he turned away from the emperor, he saw six women and girls sitting in a row. They were all swathed in white, from the veils on their heads to the gowns that covered every inch of flesh, except for their faces and hands. One of them stood very still with her hand over her heart. His gaze locked with hers…and his legs almost gave out underneath him.

Sara!

At that moment, Terranus came at him. This was the biggest man Annachie had ever seen in his life. Terranus stood at least five inches taller than Annachie’s own six and a half feet, and outweighed him by about four stone. Although certainly muscular, there were some areas of Terranus’ body that were tending to fat, and Annachie hoped he could use this to his advantage.

Instead of the gladius, the short sword favored by most gladiators, Annachie had a two-handed sword, his weapon of choice, while Terranus used a heavy iron club. On one end of the club, the iron had been hammered into a narrow edge, much like an axe. The other end was shaped into a ball with sharp spikes sticking out at all angles. Annachie knew that if his opponent’s weapon caught his in just the right way, it would snap his sword in two.

For several minutes, the men circled each other, occasionally moving in to strike a blow. But neither seemed to be making any progress. Several times Terranus’ club came so close, Annachie could feel the whoosh of air as it passed by. Terranus’ longer reach had Annachie moving backwards or jumping to the side, preventing him from getting close enough to the giant to strike a blow.

Annachie knew his only hope was to try to get the man off balance. But Terranus’ lumbering gait kept his feet firmly planted on the ground and his wide stance made it almost impossible to sway him. As time wore on, Annachie drew deep breaths of air into his lungs. He felt himself losing strength. He had to end this soon or he would die at Terranus’ hands.

He was being too cautious. His usual indifference to life or death had deserted him upon seeing Sara again. If he could just meet with her, talk to her, make sure she was all right and that she was happy. A few moments were all he needed. But he knew he would never be able to do that.

The least he could do was make sure he didn’t die in front of her.

Terranus swung his club high, intending to lop off Annachie’s head. Annachie ducked down, dropped to the ground, and sliced through Terranus’ kneecap with his sword. The big man went down, screaming, blood spurting from the arteries in his leg and soaking into the sand.

Annachie stood over the man. Terranus looked up at him, acceptance and pleading in his eyes, and nodded. Annachie usually did not kill his opponents, for many a strong man could survive injuries inflicted in the arena and go on to gain his freedom and do other work. But Terranus was losing blood fast and was in great pain.

Without looking to the emperor for approval, Annachie pierced Terranus’ heart with his sword. Then he dropped his weapon and walked back to the cells. He didn’t dare glance Sara’s way. He didn’t want to see her disgust at the animal he had become.

* * * * *

Annachie lay on his cot that night, unable to sleep. All these years Sara’s image had never faded from his mind, so at first he had wondered if he had conjured her up today. But she was real and so close he could have touched her if she had reached down to him.

Memories poured over him like rain, and just like rain, he could do nothing to stop them.

He remembered the first night she came to him after the boar’s attack. Her body had healed but her mind had not. He had heard her many times, crying out in the dark with a nightmare. Her mother, as usual, paid no attention to her. But he would hear Thea, her nursemaid, trying to comfort her and show her that no wild beasts lurked in her chamber, ready to attack her again.

Then she began coming to him in the stable. She seemed to believe that only he could banish the beasts that threatened her in the dark, in her nightmares.

But one night, she faced another fear…

* * * * *

He came awake with a start. Sara had come to him again for comfort, as she had so many nights before. She lay curled on her side, facing him, her head against his chest. He heard her sniff, and then felt her tears dampen his tunic. “Sara? What is wrong?”

“I-I saw myself in the looking glass today.”

“Aye?”

“My body is so ugly now.”

“No, Sara, no. Not true.”

“It is, it is true. I cannot make a good marriage now. I am a disgrace to my family. What man would want me now?”

“A smart man would,” Annachie said. I would, he thought, but immediately stopped himself. There was no possible way he could ever have Sara for his wife, as much as he wanted it. Her people would not accept him, and his people would not accept her. Where could they live? How could he support her and their children? What—

Annachie shook his head to clear his thoughts. What made him think Sara would even want him to begin with? No, her father would see to it that she made a good marriage. He only hoped the man would be understanding of her scars—those seen and unseen—and treat her kindly.

He tucked her head against his shoulder. “Sleep now. Everything will be all right.” And Annachie offered up a silent prayer to Harimella, the goddess of protection, that his assurances would prove true.

* * * * *

Annachie gave a trembling sigh. She had been fifteen, old enough to marry and bear children. But not his. He knew he could never have her.

She came to him only for comfort. He had saved her life and she most likely saw him as her protector. That did not mean she loved him.

Yet whatever her reason for coming to him at night, he had still looked forward to her visits. He remembered the feel of her, so thin the first time she came, then fleshing out as she continued to recover from her injuries. He remembered the scent of heather on her skin and in her hair from the soap she used.

And he remembered the night her father had found them.

He put that horrible memory aside and thought back to how she had looked today at the games. By the gods, she was lovely. He had only been able to glance at her a few times, having to keep an eye on his opponent, but he had still seen how she had matured, the woman she had become. She was plumper, soft in all the places a man likes a woman to be soft. He’d had no softness in his life since that last night with her. If he had her lying next to him now, he would not be content to merely hold and comfort her.

The very thought caused his cock to stretch and lengthen. Gods, it had been so long since he’d had a woman. He had refused all the prostitutes brought to the gladiators’ compound and all the rich women in the Roman provinces who had tried to pay for his “services”. None of them held any appeal for him. Nor did he pleasure himself, as many of the other men did. The only release he ever got was when Septimius tied him down and forced his stubby prick into him. It disgusted Annachie, yet his traitorous body didn’t care.

But tonight, nothing could stop him from reaching down to take his hardening shaft in his hand. He pictured Sara before him, not as the young girl she had been six years ago, but as the woman she’d become. In his mind, he could smell the scent of heather. He could feel the smoothness of her breasts and belly, the soft pelt covering her mons. He saw himself parting her labia and licking the moisture there. She would taste sweet, like honey…

By now the pain was almost unbearable. Annachie spat in his right hand and wrapped it around his shaft. With his left hand, he cupped his balls. He tried to imagine how her small hands would feel caressing him. Soft and smooth, tentative at first, then more boldly. He would teach her what felt the best, how to stroke him and handle him in the ways that he knew would give him release. Would she be willing to take him in her mouth? By the gods!

With that thought, his need to come was too strong to hold back any longer. He pulled and squeezed his cock gently at first, trying to make it last, seeing her smiling face before him. But soon he could not wait and began to pump faster and faster. He buried his face in the bedding of his cot to muffle his groans. Too soon, his cum burst forth, spraying his belly and chest.

As Annachie came back to his senses, he heard moans and cries from several of his cellmates, followed by a soft, breathless chuckle. A voice from a nearby cot said, “Well, Beast, it’s about damn time. We all thought you could only get it up for Septimius.”

Annachie felt his cheeks burn with shame. It was bad enough that he had endure the slaver’s abuse, let alone have his comrades make fun of him because of it.

Someday, Septimius. I do not know how nor when, but someday I am going to kill you. That I promise you.

* * * * *

Sara was relieved she did not have to tend the sacred fire that night. She couldn’t wait to be alone with her memories.

Annachie.

She had thought his image was still clear in her mind. But after seeing him today, she knew her remembered version of him paled to little more than a shadow.

He was magnificent. Even more so than the first time she saw him…

* * * * *

The Antonine Wall, Croy Hill, 143 AD

He was the first completely naked man she had ever seen.

Oh, Sara had seen her father’s soldiers working on the wall or in the fields, but they always covered themselves with at least a loincloth. And she had seen male babies but, of course, they didn’t count. This one was a man.

And a big man. He towered over even the tallest of the soldiers who were half pulling, half dragging him into the fort. His muscles strained against his chains, and a deep growl sounded from his throat. His wild, sun-streaked curls flowed in waves over his shoulders and to his waist in the back, and tight braids hung down on each side of his face. Strange blue markings, smeared from his sweat and his struggles with his captors, covered almost every inch of his flesh. Sara had no idea what they meant, but she knew he must be one of the dreaded Picts the soldiers were always fighting.

As her gaze traveled over his body, Sara felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Suddenly, she understood some of the jokes and comments she had heard the women make about men. Their words came back to her—genitalia, phallus, prick, balls—and their descriptions of what men did with those things. She now knew instinctively what those terms referred to as she watched the turgid flesh swaying between his legs and the sac hanging underneath.

These Picts must be giants, she thought. Their women, too, for an organ that large would surely tear a normal woman apart.

By now, the soldiers had dragged the captive into the stables. Sara moved from her hiding place behind the wall of the bathhouse to try to see what happened next. She heard sounds from the stable, a hammering of metal on metal, but she couldn’t see anything.

Two centurions lingered by the cart of booty that had been brought back from the battlefield. Long, heavy blades and round shields with strange designs glinted in the afternoon sun as they passed the weapons to legionaries who carried them off into the armory.

One of the soldiers held up a beautiful jeweled dagger as he passed Sara. Sapphires as large as pigeons’ eggs shone even brighter than the gold in which they were set. Even from a distance, the blade looked wickedly sharp.

Sara waited until the soldiers left and slipped into the armory.

Later that day, Sara gathered up an old sleeveless tunic and an extra blanket she found in the rubbish heap behind the barracks, and went into the stable The horses were undisturbed by her presence; a few of them turned their heads to look at her, but most of them just continued to munch their oats, occasionally flicking away flies with their tails. The smells of fresh straw and polished leather greeted her from the stalls and the tack room. The slaves kept the stables scrupulously clean, and she was glad the Pict did not have to live with the odor of manure.

She found the captive, his legs chained to a post set in Opus caementicium in one corner of an empty stall. Sara knew what the strength of that concrete was, and no matter how muscular the Pict was, he would not be able to get loose. For that reason, her father’s soldiers had no need to restrain his hands.

He was still naked, as she had suspected he would be, and she was glad she had brought the clothes and blanket. The opposite door of the stable was open, and he gazed through the slats in one wall of his stall into the distance, where the mountains lay cloaked in darkening shades of blue and gray. The rays of the setting sun slanted across the floor, highlighting the dust motes and gnats that floated around him.

They also highlighted the wet, silver streaks left by the tears that trickled down his cheeks.

“I would cry too—” she began.

The barbarian jumped to his feet, folded into a crouch as if to spring at her. Sara held her ground. He was shackled and she was far enough away that he couldn’t reach her. But even had that not been the case, she was surprised to find she was not afraid of him. His tears made her realize that he was not a beast, as her father and the soldiers made the Picts out to be, but a human being with feelings, just like other people.

“If someone took me away from my home and the people I love,” she finished.

He seemed to relax slightly but still crouched in front of her. His genitals, now limp, hung down between his legs, and Sara could not help but notice them. She felt her cheeks heat up again, as they had done when the soldiers led him in. She quickly shifted her gaze to his face.

“Here,” she said, handing him the tunic, “I brought you some clothing.”

He stood up to his full height. This close she could see that he was well over a foot taller than her own diminutive height. Sara had never seen a man so tall. He took it from her hesitantly, perhaps thinking it was some sort of trap, and stepped back quickly to pull the rough garment over his head. He nodded as if in thanks and sank back down on the straw beneath him.

“And a blanket.” She held it out for him as she sat down on a wooden bench, facing him.

The air was becoming colder as night fell. He hesitated for only a moment, then took it from her and threw it over his long, muscular legs. He nodded again. Then, as if suddenly aware of his tears, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Is that where you live?” Sara asked, pointing toward the distant mountains.

He looked at her blankly. It occurred to her that she had not heard him say anything since his capture and she realized he did not speak her language. But then, why should he?

She pointed at him, then to the mountains again. “You live there?”

He nodded curtly, but did not take his eyes off her to look toward his homeland again.

She pointed at herself. “Sara”

He stared at her for a moment, then said, hesitantly, “Say…” His voice was the deep sound of thunder from an approaching storm.

“Sara.”

“Say-ra.”

“Yes, that’s right.” She smiled at him and was pleased to see a shadow of a smile on his face. She pointed at him and raised her eyebrows, questioningly.

He spoke so quickly she could hardly understand a bit of what he said. “Ahn…” She shook her head and gave up trying to repeat his name.

As if he understood her difficulty, he said it again, more slowly. “Annachie.”

“Anna-key.”

He nodded. His smile was broader this time, revealing strong white teeth with a slight gap between the two in front. He was quite handsome, albeit in a different sort of way from the men she was used to seeing.

“Saaaraa. Where are you?” The voice of Thea, her maidservant, carried across the courtyard. “Come inside now!”

Sara gave a deep sigh. She didn’t want to go inside. She wanted to stay and teach Annachie some of her language, and hopefully, learn some of his. Turning back to him, she said, “Goodnight.”

He replied in his own language, but she did not understand it. She stood, reluctantly, and walked back to her house.

* * * * *

Sara thought back to all the times she had lain with him on his narrow cot in her father’s stable, his arms wrapped around her protectively. Even though she was old enough to marry and have children, he had seen her only as a child. He would never want her that way.

And she would never want any man but him.

Tonight, though, she could pretend, as she had so many other nights. She would imagine that they were together again, back in Caledonia, and she was his wife.

As she pictured his strong hands on her body, she began to caress her breasts. Her nipples tightened, her areolas pebbling and drawing tight. His hands would be calloused, from the rough work he used to do and from the heavy sword he now used. Yet, despite his strength and the brutality of his life, Sara knew he would be gentle with her. He always had been. As she lightly stroked her hard nipples, she imagined him taking them in his mouth and sucking. She felt her womanly passage begin to weep.

In her mind’s eye she watched him move his hands lower, across the soft mound of her belly…and her own hands followed. She brushed the soft hairs of her mons and parted her legs.

“Annachie,” she whispered.

She lightly stroked the petals of her labia, pretending it was his hands, holding back, trying to make the pleasure last. But, all too soon, she could wait no longer. She parted the moist folds and inserted one finger, then two, into her sheath. Would two of her fingers be the size of one of his? And his phallus—how big would that be when it was fully erect? Even in her protected environment, Sara had learned what men and women do together. Blessed Venus, I want him!

By this time, the honey poured from her; she could feel it trickling onto the bed beneath. She spread the moisture upward to the tiny nub, the spot that gave her the greatest pleasure. How many times had she lain in the dark, imagining his hands on her, doing this to her?

Her pleasure built and built until she could not hold back. She stroked faster and faster. She buried her head in her pillow and cried his name as she came. She kept her hand between her legs, feeling the echo of her orgasm die away.

In the moment before she drifted off to sleep, she knew what she had to do. First, she owed him an apology. Then if he agreed she would make her fantasy a reality…even at the risk of her life.

Chapter Three

“Thea,” Sara cried, clutching her former nursemaid’s arm, “were you at the games? Did you see him? Oh, Thea, he’s alive!”

“Yes, child, I know. I saw him.”

Sara had taken her free time from the temple on the third day after the games to go to her father’s house on the Palatine. The men who carried the litter that bore her there, a special privilege for the Vestals, seemed to creep along. She wanted to shout at them to hurry, but knew that they would wonder at the reason for her eagerness. She had to be careful not to create any speculation about her behavior.

She had a plan. She needed an accomplice and she prayed that Thea would assist her. “Father has gone to Cisalpine Gaul?”

“You know he has.” And Thea knew Sara too well. She could hear the suspicion in the maidservant’s voice.

“So he has not seen Annachie,” Sara said, as if to herself. “How long will he be gone this time?”

“Six months, give or take. What are you thinking, Sara?”

“I must see Annachie. I-I have to speak to him. Please help me get a message to him.”

“You plan to talk, eh, is that all?”

Sara could not answer her truthfully, and Thea would know if she tried to lie to her. So she said, “He doesn’t want me. He thinks of me as a child.”

“One look at you and he will know you are no longer a child.”

“I have to see him, Thea. I love him.”

“That is what worries me. Remember your position, your vow. You know what will happen if you should—”

“Yes, I know what will happen.” She didn’t need Thea to remind her. “And as to my vow, I made a vow to him first, in my heart.”

“You would risk your life for this man?”

“For the past six years, my life has been nothing without him. I know well the possible consequences of my actions. I want him more than life. If he should want me in…in that way, then I will not hesitate.”

When the older woman began to shake her head, Sara pleaded, “I have never asked you for anything, Thea. Please help me.”

Thea sighed. “All right, child. But be careful, I beg you.”

“I will,” Sara replied, hugging her as she had done when Thea was still her nursemaid.

“What message shall I give him?”

As she told Thea what to say, Sara ran to the jewel box in her old bedroom and withdrew an item. “And give him this.”

* * * * *

He heard footsteps approaching his cell. “Beast, come here.” Milonius Bato and two of his guards stood at the door.

Annachie rose reluctantly. By the gods, not Septimius again. One day I will kill that whoreson. His only consolation was knowing how tightly Septimius had to bind him each time he used him.

But when Annachie reached them, he saw a woman standing there next to Bato and his men. She was small in stature, swathed in black and a gauzy black veil obscured her face.

His heart skipped a beat. But in the next instant he knew from her stooped figure and her stance that it was not Sara. And, besides, Sara had been clothed all in white.

Bato spoke to the woman. “Ever since he began appearing in arenas throughout the provinces, I have had many offers for him, but he has refused them all. I doubt that you will have any better luck, but we can ask.”

Then he turned to Annachie. “You get a night of fun, Beast. A rich lady has paid for your services.” Bato could not keep the leer out of his voice.

Through gritted teeth Annachie said, “I have told you I am no puttano. I will not service a woman so you can become wealthier, Bato. Now do not ask me again.” Rich Roman women seemed to make a game of collecting gladiators, to see how many different ones they could lay. Bato spoke the truth; Annachie had received many offers. He had been tempted to accept, if only to rid himself of the feel of Septimius. But in the end he refused each one. He was Septimius’ slave and therefore had to endure his abuse, but he did not have to become a plaything for a bunch of bored matrons. There was only one woman he would accept, the one he knew he could never have.

“I understand that you have a special cell for such ‘activity’?” the woman asked Bato. Her voice sounded familiar to Annachie but he couldn’t quite place it.

Bato chuckled. “Yes, I like to keep my fighters happy.”

“I told you I will not do it!” he said.

Bato looked at the woman and shrugged his shoulders.

Annachie started to turn away when the woman spoke again. “Perhaps this will change your mind.” She opened her hand and there lay a necklace of boar’s tusks strung on a leather cord.

Annachie felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. Gods, he thought. He remembered that day so clearly…

* * * * *

Sara waved at Annachie as she walked past the ditch where he was working. He looked up at her and smiled. “Salve, Say-ra.”

“Good day, Annachie.”

“Where Say-ra go?”

She pointed to the basket on her arm, then to the dense woods at the end of the field. “I am going to gather mushrooms for supper.” As she talked, she made signs with her hands to illustrate her words, even though he could understand her language better than he could speak it.

“Say-ra take care. Wild beasts in forest.”

“Silly Annachie,” she replied with a grin, “everyone knows the only wild beast around here is you.”

He curled his fingers to mimic claws and growled at her, then laughed with her as she headed off toward the woods.

Annachie had not been working much longer when he heard the scream. “Say-ra!” He was off and running instantly.

His guards must have heard it too for they didn’t try to stop him. He plunged through the trees, guided only by the snorting and squeals of the boar.

By the time he reached her, her gown was covered in blood where the animal’s tusks had torn the skin. The beast was so intent on its attack it did not even try to run away when Annachie crashed through the undergrowth toward it. He leapt onto the boar’s back and grabbed it by the tusks, twisting and breaking its neck in one motion. He lifted the heavy animal and tossed it aside, then knelt down beside Sara. She had fainted, from the pain or fright or both.

He picked her up gently and turned to carry her back to the house. His three guards had only now caught up with him and were staring from him to the boar and back again.

Annachie nodded his head at the animal, said “Victus. Food,” and walked away without looking back.

Only one of the soldiers accompanied him back to the fort; it took both the other two to carry the boar.

* * * * *

Sara’s father had given Annachie the tusks, the only reward he wanted for saving her from the boar. Then he had saved her again when that ignorant Roman physician had given her willow bark for the pain. She had almost bled to death before her father had trusted Annachie enough to let him care for her. And, just as he had feared, Sara’s wounds had become infected. Annachie spent more than a week at her bedside, barely sleeping, nursing her through her fever and nightmares.

Yes, her father had trusted me. But not enough.

When she recovered, Annachie had given her the necklace made from the boar’s tusks. He told her that his people wore such necklaces to show their bravery.

“But I wasn’t brave. You were the one who killed the animal,” she said.

“Aye, but Say-ra brave to fight and live from such attack.”

She blushed at his words and donned the necklace.

“Hmph,” Annachie said, “suits you.”

Since that day, he had never seen her without it.

Dragging his mind back to the present, Annachie looked more closely at the woman in the black veil. Now he knew why he recognized her voice—she was Sara’s nursemaid. During all the time he had cared for Sara, Thea had watched him as a bear watches her cubs. He knew that if he had ever done anything to harm her, Thea would have torn him apart. Yet she seemed to be the only one who really suspected the depth of his feelings for Sara and he doubted that she approved. He wondered briefly why the woman was aiding Sara by arranging this meeting, but he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that he was going to see Sara again.

He grasped the necklace tightly in his fist and looked at Bato. “I accept.”

* * * * *

The guard who searched her seemed to be enjoying his job a little too much. Sara braced herself as the man smoothed his hands down her sides, lingering overlong on her breasts, then up between her legs. When he cupped her labia, Sara gasped and jumped back from him. Had he known she was really a Vestal, he would have killed himself over the insult he had just given her.

The guard grinned at her and said, “Lift your veil.”

Sara wore the same black gown and veil that Thea had worn earlier that day when she had come to make the arrangements.

“No,” Sara replied, taking a step back from him. She began to shake with fear.

Because all the sleeping chambers in the Vestals’ dormitory led through Mother Sylvia’s room, Sara’d had to find another way to sneak out. She had managed it by crawling through the tiny grilled window in her room, and slipping through the servants’ quarters. She thought that would be the hardest part of this illicit and dangerous undertaking. To be exposed now was unthinkable.

She gave a nervous sounding laugh, which did not require acting considering how nervous she was indeed. “If my husband were to find out…”

The guard stood staring at her for a long moment, and Sara felt as if her heart had stopped beating. Please, blessed Venus, please. I must see him.

Her silent prayer was answered as the man said, “This way,” and moved aside to allow Sara to enter the gladiators’ compound. He led the way to a cell with a small window cut into the door about a third of the way from the top. The window had a sliding wooden cover that could only be opened from the outside. Her escort unlocked the door and waved her inside, chuckling all the while.

The cell measured about eight feet square; the walls were made of concrete which kept the room cool despite the lack of windows. Most of the space was taken up by the bed that covered the back wall. It was large enough for two—or more—people. A small table with a lamp, a jug of wine and two cups stood next to the bed. The floor was hard-packed dirt.

She moved closer to the bed, and was thankful to see it was covered with a clean blanket. She didn’t want to think about the possible activities of the occupants who had used this cell previously.

Sara turned back to the door when she heard voices. A large figure filled the doorway and Sara’s heart skipped a beat.

“Have fun, Beast,” said the guard who had searched Sara. Then he snickered. Over Annachie’s shoulder she could see the lascivious grin on his face.

Annachie had his back to her as he spoke to the guard. “If anyone watches us,”Annachie motioned with his head to indicate the window in the cell door, “it will be the last thing he ever sees.”

The grin abruptly faded from the guard’s face.

Annachie turned around and entered the cell. The guard slammed the door behind him and locked it. She heard the wooden cover slide across the window.

Sara could not speak past the lump in her throat. She had dreamed of this moment for six years and now that it was here, she was at a loss for words.

For a moment they stood and stared at each other. Annachie’s brows knit together as if puzzled. Then he said, “Thea?”

Suddenly, Sara remembered that he had seen her nursemaid dressed this way earlier in the day. He thinks— She giggled, “No, it’s…it’s—”

He looked more closely. “Sara?”

Sara took a deep shuddering breath and lifted her veil. To be so close to him again after all these years, it was all she could do to keep from running into his arms. She forced herself to stay where she stood. “Salve, Annachie.”

“Sara?” he repeated, as if he could not believe it was really her.

“Yes, it is I.” Again, they only stared at each other. To break the silence, Sara said, “I heard you speaking with the guard. You have learned our language well.”

“I had a good teacher.” That deep voice that she remembered so well sent waves of longing through Sara’s body.

She smiled, but the lump was back in her throat and she couldn’t speak.

They stood for a few moments longer, the awkward silence growing between them again. Finally, Annachie spoke. “You have grown into a beautiful woman, Sara. But then, I knew you would. You were such a lovely young girl.”

Sara felt her cheeks warm. “Thank you,” she whispered. Silence again.

Suddenly, the guilt she had been fighting for six years overcame her at last. “Oh, Annachie, I am sorry, I am so sorry.” Her voice broke on her sobs.

He frowned and shook his head. “What for, nighean?”

As if a dam had burst, the words rushed out of her. “It was my fault, it was all my fault. I never should have stayed the nights with you. I knew the risk if my father found us together. I took your dagger from the armory and I should have given it back to you. If I had, you could have fought your way out of the fort and gone back to your people. But I was selfish, I didn’t want you to leave me. And because of me, you were given to Septimius and I cannot even imagine the hell your life has been since.” By then, she was crying so hard she could barely get the words out. “I know you can never forgive me, but you must believe me when I say that I am so sorry—”

“Shhhh, hush now.” He stepped up to her and wrapped his strong arms around her. “Do not cry, my sweet. I do not blame you. Hush now.” His big hand cupped the back of her head and held it against his chest.

She hugged him around the waist. “Oh, Annachie, I love you.” She knew she should not have said it, but she could not hold back any longer. “I’ve loved you since the first time we spoke. I know you don’t love me but—”

His mouth on hers caught off her words. Caught unawares, she opened her lips to take a breath and he slipped his tongue inside, caressing, sucking, overwhelming her senses. Her arms instinctively encircled his neck and she returned his kisses with all the desire she had harbored for him these past six years.

He drew back only long enough to say, “I have loved you from the moment you gave me the blanket and tunic. I loved you first for your kindness, then for yourself, my Sara, my sweet, sweet Sara.” He ravished her mouth again. He lowered his mouth to her neck, nibbling and kissing the sensitive flesh until she was breathless.

With one arm still around her waist, he reached up and pushed her veil completely off her head. He gasped and took a step back. “Your hair! It is short.”

“Yes, when we enter the service of Vesta, our heads are shaved. Then we keep it cut because it is cooler under the veil, but…I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Sara, do not be foolish. I do not love you for your hair. Were you bald, I would still love you.” He combed both hands through her short locks, caressing her scalp and tilting her face up to his. She gave herself up to him, taking her cues from his mouth and returning his kisses with every ounce of her soul.

Still ravishing her mouth, he slid his hands underneath her buttocks and lifted her, pressing her so close to his hard chest she thought she could slip inside his skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he sat her on the edge of the bed.

For one brief moment Sara almost stopped him, almost told him that she could not do this after all. She knew full well the penalty for breaking her vow of chastity. But what had her life been all these years without him? In truth, she had not felt alive. She had gone through her days by rote, feeling nothing, trying not to think of him. That was not living. Life was here, in Annachie’s arms, loving him, having him love her. And if her life was shortened because of that, it was worth every moment she would have with him until then.

He knelt between her legs and slipped her gown off her shoulders. For a moment he just stared at her. The gooseflesh that rose on her skin had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with the sensations he was arousing in her. Then he leaned forward and kissed and suckled her right breast until the nipple extended and her areola tightened. Heat shot from her breast to her womb and the moisture seeped from between her legs.

Sara untied the leather cord at the end of the braids that framed his face. She combed her fingers through his thick, curly hair, something she had wanted to do since she first saw him, and clasped the back of his head. After a moment, though, she realized he had stopped caressing her and was staring at her chest. He was looking at the scars on her left breast and arm. She quickly let go of him and dropped her arm down, hugging it closely to hide as best she could the remnants of the wounds the boar had inflicted.

“No,” he said. “I have seen your scars. You are beautiful, Sara. Your body is perfect because it is yours.” He lifted her arm back onto his shoulder. “Let me,” he said softly as he bent to tenderly caress and kiss her left breast and the scars over her ribs.

She had thought the boar’s attack had changed that part of her body beyond repair, and so was surprised to feel how sensitive the area was to his touch. “Ah, Annachie.”

Suddenly, she had to feel his skin against hers. She pushed him back slightly and unclasped the leather belt at his waist. She gathered the material of his tunic in her fists and he raised his arms to help her lift it over his head.

For a moment, she could only stare at his thickly muscled chest. He had been muscular when she first met him but now, after all these years of fighting, his body was as sculpted as the statues in the Forum. She also noted the many scars he didn’t have before. It brought home to her again how hard and how deadly his life had been since they had last seen each other.

“Can you forgive me, Annachie?”

“I told you there is nothing to forgive. Now the only words I want to hear from your mouth are, ‘Oh, Annachie, I want you, oh, Annachie, love me.’”

She heard the smile in his voice and giggled. “Oh, Annachie, I want you. Oh, Annachie,” her breath caught as she suddenly grew serious, “love me.”

“I do,” he said. “I will.” He urged her back until she was lying down on the bed and slid her gown farther down her body. “Lift up.”

She followed his command and he slipped the gown over her hips and off her legs, leaving her naked before him. His calloused fingers stroked down the outside of her legs, then back up the inside of her thighs, erasing the memory of the guard’s mauling.

Annachie lowered his head and kissed her belly, working his way down to the curls on her mons.

She gasped in surprise. She thought she should stop him, she thought she would die if he stopped.

“Oh, please, Annachie, please.” She didn’t really know what she was begging for. She only knew there was an ache inside her she had never felt before and only he could relieve it.

“Sara, I must ask,” he hesitated for a moment, “Are you still a virgin?”

She sat up and stared at him in disbelief. He doesn’t know! He doesn’t know what it means to be a Vestal Virgin, nor the vows that I took.

And she was not about to tell him.

“Yes,” she replied.

“My little love, I want you so much I ache.” It pleased her to hear he felt the same way she did. “But I have no wish to hurt you. So I have to make you ready for me. Lie back.”

She had no idea what he meant, but she trusted him and again did as he commanded. He rubbed his cheek against her curls and inhaled her scent. She grabbed fistfuls of the blanket to keep herself from pushing him away. “Annachie?”

“Aye?”

“Is this part of ‘making me ready’?”

“Aye.” He chuckled. “Trust me, nighean. Open your legs to me.”

She began to relax just a little until she felt his tongue stroking her nether lips. “Oh, blessed Venus,” she whispered with the little breath left in her body. She had never known such pleasure was possible. Annachie’s tongue probed inside her and her honey flowed out around his mouth. She thought again she should stop him, for surely a man would not want to taste such a thing, but her body wouldn’t let her. She felt as if she were floating above the bed, out of that stark cell, and soaring to the stars in the night sky.

“Sara,” he mumbled against her sodden curls, “I cannot wait any longer. If I hurt you, I am sorry, but I need you now.”

“Yes, please, Annachie, please.”

He rose above her and positioned his body between her legs. Taking hold of his phallus, he guided it to the opening of her passage. Then he pushed, but stopped when Sara gave a short squeal. “Forgive me, my little love,” he whispered. Then he pushed again, harder this time, and Sara felt the thin membrane of her maidenhead give way.

Sara’s strangled cry stopped him. For a moment, she feared he would pull out and leave her. Instead, he lowered his body until he rested on his elbows and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and her eyes that poured tears. “I am sorry, so sorry. I had no wish to hurt you, but it is the way of it when men and women join. The pain will ease, I promise. Forgive me.”

He stayed very still while she adapted to his flesh inside her. From the strained expression he wore, Sara thought it must have been difficult for him. She loved him even more for that.

“You think I am crying because you hurt me?” She hurried to reassure him. “Oh, Annachie, my beloved, I was crying for joy. It-it hurt a little at first, but now it is wonderful. I have wanted you for so long, wanted you inside me.” She took his sigh of relief into her own mouth as she pulled his head down for a deep kiss. She tasted her moisture on his lips. “Is that how I taste?”

“You taste so sweet.” And with that, he began to move back and forth, deep inside her passage and out until he almost slipped from her. Soft, moist sounds came to her as her honey eased his way.

The pleasure built until Sara thought surely she would die of it.

“Forgive me,” Annachie said, “but I cannot last much longer. I promise the next time will be better, but now I must—Ahh.” With a loud cry, he threw his head back and pushed as far inside her as he could. Sara felt his seed bursting forth, bathing the soreness of his initial entry. For just a moment she was again overcome with a feeling of panic, knowing the possible consequence of her actions this night. But just as quickly, a calm settled over her.

I have wanted this for so long. Yes, I would give up my life for this one night in his arms. But, oh Blessed Venus, let it be more than just one night.

They spoke little, content to simply look at each other and touch each other, give sometimes gentle and sometimes hungry kisses. Despite Sara’s protests, Annachie refused to take her again, saying that she would be too sore from the first time.

“When can I see you again?” he asked.

“I have to tend the fire in the temple tomorrow night, and I cannot risk leaving too often. In three days? Will they let you come?”

“If you have enough coin to pay Bato they will.”

Although the night was still black, they both knew that dawn was fast approaching. “I must be back at the temple before daybreak.”

Annachie nodded, then smiled. “Just as it used to be, aye?”

* * * * *

Even from as far away as the stable, he heard her screaming with a nightmare, and the night after that, she came to him again. This time he heard her enter the stall in which he was chained. “Sara, what is it?”

“May I stay with you tonight, Annachie?”

“Oh, little one, if your father finds you here—”

“He won’t. I’ll go back before the household wakes up. I-I am so afraid of the dark. But I don’t think I will be as afraid if I am with you.”

He knew he should tell her—no, make her—go back to her room, but he didn’t have the heart to do it. Even if her father killed him for it, he would never send Sara away, especially when she needed him.

He held the blanket up and she lay down on her side, her back to his front. That was all Annachie remembered until he felt her stir as the sky began to lighten to a dull gray. She left him without a word, thinking perhaps that he still slept.

Despite the warmth that lingered where she had lain, his pallet felt cold and empty.

* * * * *

“Yes,” she replied. “Will we ever get to see a sunrise together?”

Chapter Four

“Ho, Micah. Will ya look at that!”

Annachie peeked through slits in his eyes, wondering what was going on. The young slave turned at the sound of the Germanic gladiator’s gruff voice. Rolf pointed to Annachie, who leaned back against the stone wall surrounding the gladiator compound. “What about him?” Micah asked.

“He’s smiling. The Beast is smiling.”

At Rolf’s words, Annachie’s smile widened.

“She was good, eh?” the big German asked.

“I do not kiss and tell.”

“Ah, come on. The last matron I had was so hot for it, she drained me dry. I couldn’t fuck for two weeks afterward. Her husband was some shriveled up old senator and couldn’t keep her happy.”

“Our Lord says the vow of marriage is sacred,” Micah said, “and if you break that vow, you will burn in Hell.”

“I was not breaking it, she was.” Rolf replied with a laugh. “And if I go to Hell, at least all my friends will be there with me, right, Beast?” Rolf nudged Annachie in the ribs.

Annachie opened his eyes for the first time since the conversation began and glared at Rolf. Then he turned to Micah. “Who is this ‘Lord’ you are always talking about?”

“Our Lord is the one true God, the one we worship. About one hundred years ago, He gave His only son to die for our sins.”

“What kind of man would sacrifice His son for strangers?” Annachie asked.

“But we are not strangers. We are His children.”

Annachie shook his head. “You confuse me, Micah. You say he had only one son, yet you Christians are all his children. That does not make sense.”

Micah opened his mouth to respond but at that moment, Bato called Annachie for practice. He watched the boy limp away, his twisted foot slowing his gait, and wondered again about these people whom the Romans persecuted so severely. They seemed to be a peaceful sect. Why then were the Romans so afraid of them?

* * * * *

“Sara?”

“Yes, Mother Sylvia?”

“You are smiling. In the all the years you have been with us, I have never seen you smile.”

Sara of course could not tell the chief Vestal why she was smiling. “I was just remembering an enjoyable time I had with my family.” She felt slightly guilty lying to Mother Sylvia. But she felt less guilty over the reason why she lied.

Yet, in a way, what she had said was true—she considered Annachie her family now. He was her husband in every way, even though the priests had performed no ceremony. And the time she spent with him had certainly been enjoyable. She felt the moisture pool in her womanly passage every time she thought about it.

Two more days and she would see him again. Two more days…and two more even longer nights.

The third night finally arrived. As soon as the cell door was closed and locked, Sara flung herself into Annachie’s arms.

He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He yanked up the material of her gown and bunched it at her waist. With one arm beneath her buttocks, he reached under his tunic and grasped his hardened shaft. He positioned it at her opening and pushed, driving himself into her until the head of his phallus touched her womb. Sara cried out as a slight pain took her by surprise, but before she knew what was happening, her crisis hit, even though Annachie had hardly moved inside her. Her pleasure triggered his. He grunted and pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck. Still inside her, he carried her the few steps to the bed. Sara wished it were farther away; each step he took sent a lightning bolt of pleasure through her.

When he pulled out of her, the feeling of emptiness almost made Sara cry. But she knew the night had only just begun.

As he sat her on the edge of the bed, Sara unclasped his belt and removed his tunic. She could not wait to feel his flesh against hers. She threw the rough cloth into the corner of the room, leaving him naked except for the boar’s tusks necklace. He had worn it earlier that day when he fought in the games. She had heard the whispered comments around her in the stands, as the spectators marveled at the size of the tusks and wondered what the significance of the necklace might be. She had hidden her smile, enjoying the secret she and Annachie shared.

He lifted her gown to her shoulders and pressed against her. Sara quickly shrugged out of the bunched cloth and flung it aside. New sensations engulfed her as her breasts pressed against his muscular torso.

His hands began to explore her and his lips followed. Sara felt as if her body would ignite with each kiss and caress. Her honey, mixed with Annachie’s cum, already poured from her by the time Annachie reached her mons.

“Oh, Sara.” His voice sounded strained. “My little love, I cannot wait. I must have you again. Please, say you are ready for me.”

“Yes, Annachie, yes. I cannot wait either.”

With no further delay, he thrust into her. She felt a slight pinching, but nothing like their first joining. Then he began to move and there was only pleasure. She met him thrust for thrust, her hips bucking beneath him. They peaked together and, as if he had no strength left, he collapsed on top of her.

He must have known he was too heavy to lie on her, for he quickly turned onto his side, taking her with him. They cuddled in each other’s arms as their breathing returned to normal. He pulled her hair aside and kissed her neck.

“So you are a priestess now?”

“Yes.” Sara silently prayed he would not ask her anymore about her life as a Vestal.

“What of your parents, are they well? I suppose your mother is very glad to be back in Rome, is she not?”

“She was glad. She always complained about the weather and the cold in Caledonia. We were only in Rome six months before she caught a fever and died.”

“Oh, Sara, I am sorry.”

“We were not close, as you know. I never could seem to please her.”

He nuzzled her ear. “You belong in Caledonia. I wish we were there and not here.”

“As do I.” She moved back slightly so she could see his face. “Would you go back there now? Surely your father would be proud of you, a famous gladiator.”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before he said, “Aye, he might. But it does not matter. I am a slave, trapped.”

“Have you tried to escape?”

“At first I did but the more I tried, the closer I was watched and the tighter they chained me. So I gave up trying.”

“I am a prisoner, too, but I am chained only by my honor.”

“That can be a stronger bond than iron. And it should be.”

For a moment, Sara felt guilty. She lied, she had no honor. She had broken her vow of chastity, and she knew that if Annachie said the word, she would leave everything—the temple, Rome, even her father—and go with him to Caledonia or to the far corners of the world, whatever he asked of her.

They lay peacefully for a time. Sara thought she might have dozed off for when she opened her eyes, she found that Annachie too seemed to be asleep. His chest rose steady and even with his deep breaths.

Sara was glad. She wanted to feel his body the way he had felt hers, but she was afraid he would think her too forward. So she took this opportunity to explore. She caressed his back lightly, tracing the paths of the scars left by her father’s soldiers that long ago day in Caledonia. But that brought back too many bittersweet memories, so she let her fingers wander lightly down over his tight buttocks.

He groaned and she felt his flesh begin to harden against her belly.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

His deep chuckle vibrated under her ear. “A touch such as that could wake a dead man.”

“You do not mind?”

“Mind?” He took her hand and placed it over his hardening flesh. “Does this make you think I mind?” Then he bent his head to hers and took her mouth, parting her lips, his tongue dueling with hers in passionate combat.

She raised herself up and leaned over his chest, pushing her fingers into his thick curls. He brought her the rest of the way so that she lay atop him. “Annachie, what are you doing?”

“You know how to ride. I watched you ride around the army compound at the wall. Let me be your mount. Ride me, Sara.”

He pushed her hips back and lifted her slightly until she felt his hard shaft beneath her. She was still wet from their previous joinings and he slipped easily inside her. He kept his hands on her hips guiding her at first until she found her own rhythm. Then he sat up, crossing his legs beneath her, and took one breast in his mouth while he tenderly fingered the other. A surge of hot pleasure shot to the heart of Sara’s womb and she came with a strangled cry.

Her muscles squeezed him tightly and that sent Annachie over the edge. His seed shot into her in hot waves. She fell forward onto his chest and his softening flesh slipped from her passage.

“Annachie?”

He was still trying to recover when Sara softly called his name. “Aye?”

“May I continue to touch you?”

He was tempted to laugh, but the serious and shy tone of her voice stopped him. He did smile, however. “You may touch me as much as you like.”

She returned his smile and sat up, still straddling his hips.

She began at his neck, her soft fingers caressing lightly, sending shivers over his whole body. Then down his arms, tickling, and up his sides, stroking him with the backs of her fingers. Soon he became aware that she was tracing the lines and curves etched into his flesh by more weapons than he could count.

“You have more scars than when I last saw you.” She bent forward and kissed each one, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ragged pink line on her right wrist. He took hold of both her forearms and held them up in front of him, noting the matching scar on her left wrist. “As do you,” he said. A distinctive notch in the line of the scar caught his eye. He knew the knife that made that scar. A wave of nausea swept through his gut. “Sara, what did you do?” She hesitated, so he urged, “Tell me.”

“I could not bear it when Septimius took you away.”

Annachie hugged her tightly against his chest. “Oh my love, I heard you screaming…”

* * * * *

“No, father, please! He didn’t do anything. We didn’t do anything.”

“Take him,” Quintus shouted to Septimius. “Get him out of my sight.”

“Father, no, no, please.” Sara grasped at her father’s arm, but he shook her off. She fell backward onto the hard-packed dirt of the stable floor.

“Go to your room. I will deal with you later.” Her father stood over her, one arm extended, pointing toward the house.

A loud clang reverberated around the stable as Septimius’ men shattered the lock on Annachie’s chains with a pickaxe. Then, almost before Sara could blink, it seemed, Annachie was in the slaver’s cart, moving along the road heading south.

Sara tried once more. “Father—”

“Go!” Quintus roared.

Sara ran to the house, up the stairs and into her room. She stood at her window watching Septimius’ train of wagons and the cart into which they had shoved Annachie get smaller and smaller as they traveled farther and farther away from her. When she could no longer see them, she turned and went to the chest at the foot of her bed.

She took out a silk-wrapped bundle and a silk scarf. She unwrapped the bundle, revealing the dagger she had taken from the armory the day Annachie was captured. She laid the knife in her lap. She made a loop and tied the scarf around her left arm. Holding the dagger in her right hand, she pressed the sharp edge against her left wrist and drew it quickly across, slicing deep. Then she pulled the scarf tight and held the end between her teeth.

There was no pain yet.

With the dagger in her left hand, she cut her right wrist as deeply as she could. She released the scarf on her left arm and watched as the blood flowed out of her veins and pumped out of her slashed arteries. At first, there was no pain, only a slight itching. The pain came after only a few moments.

She lay down on the floor…and waited.

* * * * *

“The next thing I remember someone was screaming. I thought for a moment it was me, but then I realized it was Thea. She was the one who found me. I was very weak for a long time, then we came back to Rome. I don’t remember much of the journey here.”

“Oh, Sara, with my own dagger. Why?”

“It was my fault my father gave you to Septimius. And I had no wish to live without you.”

“Never take your life because of me, Sara.”

If you only knew, she thought. For a moment she was tempted to tell him what she was risking to be with him, but she couldn’t. She knew he would put an end to their meetings. Now that she was with him again, now that they had made love, she would never jeopardize the times they could be together.

Chapter Five

“Olivia is ill. You must guard the fire tonight, Sara.”

No, I cannot! Sara hoped her reaction did not show on her face. As always when she was with Annachie, she had gotten very little sleep. They had dozed, but each time they awoke, they made love again. How would she ever manage to stay awake all night to keep the sacred flame from going out?

“Yes, Mother Sylvia.” Sara could not refuse, of course. She had managed to sneak away to meet Annachie five times now over a period of one month, and each time she had feared her luck would run out. If she gave any excuse to the chief Vestal, it could arouse the woman’s suspicions and that would be the end. Perhaps truly the end.

She went about her daily chores as usual, hoping to find a little free time to nap. But as usual, she was kept busy, and there was no time to rest. She drank water with her meals because wine tended to make her sleepy…and she certainly didn’t need to be any drowsier than she was.

Night finally came and Sara entered the temple. She was supposed to be on her knees, praying to Vesta, rising only to feed the sacred flame when it threatened to burn out. Instead she paced, splashed cool water on her face, and stood in the doorway of the temple to let the cool night breeze wash over her. She wanted to take a walk, but she dare not leave the fire for very long. Finally she returned to kneel before the altar and recite the prayers as expected of her.

That was the last thing she remembered.

“Sara! Wake up.”

Someone was shaking her roughly by the shoulders. She came awake with a start and found herself staring up at the angry visage of Mother Sylvia. “What have you done, girl?”

“I am sorry, Mother, I only dozed off for a moment.”

“A moment? It is morning. And look—the fire is out!”

Sara slowly turned her head toward the iron brazier that held the sacred flame. Oh, gods, help me. Her worst fear had been realized. She knew the punishment she was in for and began to brace herself for what was to come. She thought of the scars on Annachie’s back from the whipping her father’s soldiers had given him. Now I will know how it truly feels, she thought.

“Go to your chamber while I speak with the Pontifex Maximus. Someone will come for you when all is ready.”

“Yes, Mother Sylvia.” The Pontifex Maximus, the head priest, was the only one who could legally shed the blood of a Vestal. Sara hated the sight of him. He was a withered old man who always smelled of garlic and who stared at the young priestesses in a way he shouldn’t. Once before she had seen him administer the punishment now awaiting her and he seemed to enjoy it. Her only consolation was that she would be unable to see his horrible face. Her back would be to him for the whipping.

With trembling knees, Sara made it to her room and sat down on the bed. She stayed there all day, shaking in fear, fighting back the tears. No one called her for meals—not that she could have eaten anyway. She heard the other Vestals reciting the evening rituals and repeated the words silently, out of habit.

Then she heard footsteps coming down the hall. Her door opened and Ocelina stood there, her face pale in the fading evening light from the window at the end of the hallway. With a shaky voice, Lina said “I-It’s time.”

Sara rose and followed the younger girl down the hallway. Ocelina walked ahead of her, occasionally glancing back as if she feared Sara would attack her and try to escape to avoid the fate that awaited her.

It was a short walk to the side room off the temple, but it was the longest walk of Sara’s life. The other Vestals were arranged around the side walls of the chamber, standing with their heads bowed as if they were afraid to look at her for fear they would have to share her punishment. The Pontifex Maximus, stood in the center with Mother Sylvia behind his right shoulder.

“Come forward,” the Pontifex commanded.

Sara took a deep breath, tried to stop shaking in fear and approached the old priest. She could tell that he was trying to look solemn, but there was a gleam in his eyes that confirmed all too clearly Sara’s suspicion that he would enjoy what he was about to do. That made her angry. I will not scream. I will not give you the satisfaction.

“As this is your first offense,” he said, “the punishment will be only fifteen lashes. If it happens again, however, it will be thirty.”

Sara nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. He stepped aside and pointed to a low white marble altar behind him. His body had hidden it while he had been speaking to her. Now, Sara could clearly see the brown veins that ran throughout the stone. Or rather, what she had thought were veins. As she drew closer, she realized they were stains of dried blood that the cleaning slaves could not wash off. How many other girls had been subjected to this punishment, she wondered. And did holy Vesta really require such bloodshed from her priestesses? Does she enjoy seeing us suffer? That thought shook Sara to her very core. If so, why then am I serving such a heartless deity?

“Take your gown from your shoulders and kneel over the altar.” Sara could almost hear the leer in the Pontifex’s voice.

The cold stone against her skin only added to the shivering that was fast overtaking her. The edges of the altar were smooth but still dug into her breasts as she tried to grasp the opposite side and brace herself. She heard a soft scraping across the floor behind her, a whoosh, and the first stroke hit her.

Despite her resolve not to, she cried out. Fourteen more, she thought. I will die. I cannot bear it. But she forced herself to think of Annachie, and she knew she would suffer anything to be with him again.

The second lash was not quite as bad because she knew it was coming. She was able to only gasp and grip the altar tighter. By the ninth stroke she was crying, by the twelfth she could no longer hold onto the stone. She collapsed to the floor and tried to crawl away, but the priest pursued her and gave her the last three lashes as she lay at his feet. She felt all fifteen strokes of the whip before she fainted.

Sara awoke in her small chamber, face down on her bed. By the light from the hallway, she could tell that it was nearing twilight. On the table by her bed, someone had left water, some cheese, and a small loaf of bread. She suddenly realized she was hungry. But when she reached for the food, the dull ache in her back that had lingered at the edge of her awareness blossomed into a pain so sharp it stole her breath.

At that moment, Mother Sylvia entered. “Ah, you are awake. We were starting to worry.”

If you were so worried, why did you do this in the first place? But, of course, Sara could not say that to the woman. “Have I slept all day?”

“Two days,” the chief Vestal replied.

Two days. No!

She was supposed to see Annachie the next night. And she would go to him, if she had to crawl.

* * * * *

When Annachie entered the cell, the first thing he noticed was a strange smell. He couldn’t quite identify it, but he knew it should not be associated with Sara. She always smelled of flowers and the incense they used in temples. He looked around the room and was surprised to find her already in bed, asleep. He sat down next to her and touched her shoulder gently. “Sara?”

She rose up on her knees, slowly, and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Annachie, I am so glad to see you. I’m so glad you are here.”

He smiled against her hair. “Of course I am here. Where else would I be?” He wrapped his arms around her.

“Ah!” she cried.

He immediately loosened his hold on her. “Sara, what is it? I hurt you?”

“No,” she said, but he knew she was lying.

“Tell me.”

“No, it is nothing, truly.”

He again placed his hand on her back and pressed, and again she gasped as if in pain. “Lie down.”

“No, Annachie, it is all right.”

“Lie down,” he repeated. “Let me see.”

She reluctantly did as he commanded. He slipped her gown off her shoulders and down to her waist. The sight of her back knocked the breath out of his body and he reeled back in horror. In that instant, he identified the smell that had eluded him—blood. “Sara, who did this to you? Tell me so I can kill him.”

“No, I cannot tell you. And besides, I deserved it.”

“No one deserves this. Now tell me what happened.”

When she finished her story, Annachie said, “And they call my people barbarians. We do not whip our women.”

“At least, now I know what you went through.”

He grimaced at the painful memory…

The morning after his capture, Annachie was given a slice of bread and a strip of dried meat then, still shackled by his legs, was led out of the stable by three soldiers—two held his arms in a death-grip while the other led the way—and taken over to a grove of alder trees. The soldier who apparently was in charge, a short man with black hair, handed him an ax and said something in their language which Annachie, of course, did not understand. So, the man pantomimed cutting down the tree.

Annachie felt a chill run down his spine. The man couldn’t mean it. It was forbidden to cut down alder trees. His luck had already turned bad by being captured but by cutting down these trees, he could bring bad luck to his whole village—his family, his friends, everyone he had left behind.

He put his hands behind his back and shook his head vehemently. They could shackle him, make him sleep in a cold, drafty stable, and starve him but they could not force him to cut down alder trees.

The black-haired soldier shoved the axe handle into Annachie’s belly. It hurt, but he only gritted his teeth and shook his head again.

The soldier then reached for the whip in his belt, his hand lingering there ominously as he stared into Annachie’s eyes. Annachie returned the look, unflinching. The other two soldiers moved behind him and held his arms in a tight grip. With a wicked grin, the man in charge had the whip out and across Annachie’s chest before he could react.

I’ll give you that one, Annachie thought, but no more.

As the man raised his arm to strike again, Annachie threw off the ones who held him and grabbed the whip, yanking it out of the man’s grasp. He wrapped the whip into a loose coil and held it in front of him. The soldier growled some words at him and lunged for the whip. Taller than he by several inches, Annachie simply raised it above his head where the man couldn’t reach. He turned at the sound of laughter nearby and saw that a crowd of soldiers had gathered to watch the scene.

The black-haired soldier heard it, too, and that only increased his anger. He balled up his fist and punched Annachie hard in the gut. It knocked the wind out of him for a moment and he staggered a bit, but recovered quickly. The look on the face of the soldier in charge told him he was in for it now.

Several more soldiers stepped forward, apparently at his tormentor’s command, to help subdue him. They caught him by the arms, dragged him over to the tree he had been ordered to cut down and, taking a length of rope, tied his arms around the trunk. He felt hands at his neck and heard a rip as the ragged tunic was torn down the back. Of course, let nothing come between my bare flesh and the whip. Inflict as much pain as you can. Kill me. What do I care? I have nothing to live for now.

The first cut took his breath away. For a small man, the soldier had a strong whip arm. After the fifth stroke, Annachie felt the pace of the lashing speed up. He’s finding his rhythm. How long can he keep this up? Will they all take a turn? Do it. Get it over with.

By the tenth stroke, Annachie was biting his lip to keep from crying out. He could taste the blood where his teeth had broken the tender skin.

At the fifteenth stroke, his knees buckled, and with the twentieth, he fainted.

He was awakened by a searing agony over his entire back, different from the pain of the lash, and he cried out then, where he had not done so while being whipped.

“Shh,” a soft feminine voice said. The voice was familiar but his pain-ravaged brain could not place it. She said more, in her language which he could not speak or understand, but the tone of her words was comforting.

He heard whimpering and was appalled to realize the feeble sound came from his own mouth. He smelled vinegar as the girl—that’s who it is, he thought, the young girl who was so kind last night—placed cold, wet cloths on his back. By Diancecht, no wonder it burns so badly. But his people used the same remedy. It would cleanse his wounds and help them heal. Before he fainted again, he wondered how this girl had learned the art of healing. The Picts, as these Romans called his people, had specially trained healers. Did all Roman women know such things? If so, perhaps there was hope for their stupid race, after all.

* * * * *

“I did not know you saw that,” Annachie said.

“I was watching from behind the bath house.”

He was silent for a moment, “We must get out of here,” he said.

She turned her head to look at him. “How can we do that? I am a captive as much as you are.”

“I will find a way.”

“But where would we go?”

He moved up beside her and lifted her head so that his thigh was her pillow. He stroked her hair and her cheek. “I do not know, but we will find a place. I cannot stay in this city, this land. It is too hot, too crowded, too…”

Sara finished his sentence. “Barbaric, as you said. Rome claims to be the center of the civilized world, yet how can it claim to be so when its citizens think death is a sport and its gods demand cruel punishments?”

“I will see what can be done. Surely some of the other gladiators have attempted to escape. We can learn from their mistakes. We will leave as soon as I can make the arrangements.”

Sara started to doze off, but she could feel a tension in Annachie that she had not sensed before. He was quiet for so long that Sara finally looked up at him. “What are you not telling me?”

He took a deep sigh. “I have been thinking that we will have a difficult time ahead of us. And…and perhaps we should be more careful. I do not want you to make a dangerous voyage while carrying my child.”

A feeling of relief, but also one of sadness, washed over Sara. “We cannot make love anymore? You do not want me to come here?”

“Oh, nighean, of course I want you to come. And we can still make love.”

“Then will I not risk becoming pregnant?”

He smiled at her. “There are ways to prevent it, you know.”

No, she didn’t know. “How?”

He cleared his throat and looked a bit uncomfortable at having to explain it to her. “Uhm, I will, um, pull out before I spill my seed.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I should have thought to do so every time, but I wanted you so badly, I needed you and I could not think straight. I still want you and need you, but I think I can control myself more now.”

Sara gave an inward sigh of relief. “Yes, it might be best if we took that precaution.” He would never know the depth of worry he took from her.

She would be much less worried, however, if her moon flow would start. She was already two weeks overdue.

Chapter Six

“Micah,” Annachie called to the young slave. When the boy limped over to him, Annachie continued, “I need your help.”

“With what?”

“You have the run of the compound. You know the habits of Bato and the guards, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where the keys are kept?”

Micah took a step back and stared at Annachie, his mouth open in surprise. “Annachie, what are you asking of me?”

“I need to escape and I need your help.”

“I cannot. It is too risky, too dangerous for both of us. If we are caught, it means death.”

“If I stay here, I will die.”

Micah shook his head. “I have watched you in the arena. You fight as if you do not care if you die. Why do you want so much to live now?”

“Now I have something to live for.”

“Ah, this lady you have been servicing?”

“You say it as if I were a stud horse.”

“Aren’t you?” Micah asked. “She pays to come here and lie with you, does she not? I know why the rich Roman women seek out the gladiators and it is not for their conversation. Are you sure that she will still want you when you are free?”

“You do not understand how it is with her and me. We knew each other before either of us came to Rome.”

“Ah, I see. But I cannot help you. Bato makes sure no one sees him put away the keys. I would not know where to begin to look.”

“Micah, please, you are our only hope. Do you not want your freedom? Do you want to be a slave to the Romans for the rest of your life?”

“No, I do not.” The boy looked thoughtful for a moment then said, “I will see what I can do.”

Annachie breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, my friend, thank you.”

* * * * *

The other gladiator swung his sword in a wide arc, nearly taking Annachie’s head off in the process. Annachie ducked and backed away, breathing heavily. Too close! I must be more careful.

But Annachie knew the problem was that, again, he was being too careful. Now that he had a reason to live, he worried too much about his opponents’ next moves and that made him overly cautious.

He sensed Sara behind him, watching. He dared not look at her for fear that someone might guess at their relationship. And he knew the sight of her, and the look of fear and concern in her eyes, would only distract him further from the battle he faced.

He would confront Micah tonight; they could not wait much longer.

“Oh, Annachie.” Sara gasped as he softly stroked the side of her breast. Not for the first time, she marveled at how such a strong, ruthless warrior in the arena could be so tender with her in bed. He seemed to be a different man totally from the one she’d watched just yesterday.

His lips closed over her nipple and she moaned. She combed her fingers through his thick curls, as she loved to do, loosening some strands from the strip of leather he used to tie his hair back. It was not enough. She reached back and untied the thong; his golden hair fell forward and surrounded her like a curtain. It blocked her view of everything but his face and made her feel as if they were the only two people in the world. No worries, no fears, no duties, only she and Annachie together, loving one another. Oh, how she wished that were true.

She looked up to see him gazing at her. “Where were you, my love? You seemed to be a thousand miles away.”

“I was,” she replied. “In a land where no one lived but us, and no one bothered us, and our lives were not in danger.”

“Our lives?” he asked. “I risk mine almost daily, but you do not.”

Sara realized her mistake, but was too slow to respond to him.

“Sara, is your life in danger? Tell me,” he demanded.

She gave a short laugh. “No, of course not,” she lied. “I-I meant to say your life. I worry so when you are in the arena.” She knew that if she told him the truth, he would refuse to make love to her, might even refuse to come to this little room with her at all. She could not go back to that limbo in which she existed before they found each other again. Now that they were together, nothing else mattered.

He seemed to accept her words for he went back to caressing and kissing her breasts. Then he trailed kisses down her belly to her soft curls. He lifted her knee, opening her center to his gaze and his touch, and his kiss. And Sara was lost to thought. She could only feel—his lips caressing her nether lips, his tongue stroking that sensitive knot of flesh at her core. As her crisis began, he rose above her and thrust into her.

“Forgive me, Sara. I could wait no longer. I need to be inside you,” he groaned as he buried himself to the hilt in her passage. “I need you,” he repeated, his voice holding a note of desperation.

“Oh, Annachie, I need you, too.” She raised her legs and wrapped them around his waist. She lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, forcing him in deeper and deeper. She felt another crisis approaching. He must have sensed it for he gave one last thrust and stopped, grinding the base of his phallus against her sensitive nub.

Then, just as quickly, he was gone and his hot seed splashed against her belly. Sara hated when he did that. More and more, she suspected it was not necessary—she still had not started her monthly bleeding—but she was afraid to tell him.

When their breathing had returned to normal, he said, “I am making plans to escape. There is a young boy, one of Bato’s slaves. He thinks he can get the keys and help me get out of this compound. Then we will find a ship to take us away from here. I do not know where yet, but we will find a place.” He paused for a moment. “You will come with me, will you not?”

“I would go with you to the ends of the earth.”

“There is an island I have heard of, across a narrow sea channel from my land. They call it Eire. We might try to make it there.”

As Sara walked back to the Temple just as dawn began to lighten the sky, she prayed to any god she thought would help them. She glanced up at the ghost of a full moon fading with the coming of a new day and knew her suspicions were correct. It had been two months since she and Annachie had first made love.

She had not had her moon flow for about a month and a half. She was carrying his child.

Let it be soon, Annachie. We must leave soon or it will be too late.

* * * * *

Annachie paced his cell like a caged lion, waiting for Thea to come with the money and tell Bato when Sara would come to him again. Then he could give the servant a message for her. He would be gone, but Micah could help Sara leave the city and hide out in a safe town until Annachie returned. Then, as soon as they could, they would find a boat to take them far away.

Annachie wished he could go home, but he also knew it was impossible. He had been disgraced enough when he was captured and enslaved. How much greater his shame was now after the abuse he had suffered at Septimius’ hands. If his clan ever found out… No, best to let them think he had died.

Still, the longing for home was almost overpowering. And he knew Sara had loved it there.

He tried to imagine his family’s reaction to her. She said she would go anywhere with him, but she had no idea how he had lived before she met him. Compared to the structures built by the Romans, his home was crude at best—stones piled on top of each other up to a thatched roof that often rained dirt and sheltered insects. A fire in the center of the room and hole in the roof to let the smoke out. Wooden benches, beds stuffed with straw arranged around the walls. A house of only one room. These things were not good enough for Sara. She would not be happy with that, not after sleeping in soft beds with linen coverings and living in a large comfortable house with servants to care for her every need. In his clan, their women worked like the slaves who attended Sara. She would not know how to do half the things the Pictish women did…and she should not have to.

He would find a place where they could live—not in her world nor in his—and he would do everything he could to make her happy. He didn’t know quite how he was going to do it, but he would. Anything, so long as he and Sara could be together.

He waited and waited, and still Thea did not come.

And neither did Micah. Bato kept him busy preparing the equipment and weapons needed for the trip, even though the lad would not be coming with them. Annachie wanted to bash his head against the bars of his cell. He hadn’t even told Micah Sara’s name or what she looked like. How would the boy find her?

He would leave in the morning and Sara wouldn’t know. There was no way he could get a message to her. He prayed to Coventina, the goddess of his tribe, the goddess of new beginnings, that Sara would hear that some of Septimius’ gladiators had gone to Dalmatia, and understand why their plans would have to be put off until spring.

* * * * *

Sara stared at Thea in disbelief. “No. It cannot be true.”

“I am afraid it is true, child. Bato himself told me.”

“And he would not let you see Annachie?”

“No, not even a glimpse of him. I told him my mistress could make trouble for him, but it made no impression. From what I gather, Septimius has made a wager with a fellow slaver in Dalmatia that his gladiators cannot be defeated. So he is sending Bato’s fighters there to prove it.”

“How-how long will they be gone?”

“Three months, or so Bato said. Almost autumn here now, but Dalmatia is warmer, so the weather should not hinder their travel. It will be winter when they return.”

Three months! She could not hope to hide her pregnancy that long.

“Oh, Holy Vesta, help me.” Sara whispered as she sank into a chair in the foyer of her father’s house.

“Does he know you carry his child?”

Sara looked up at her old nurse. “I should have known I could not keep it a secret from you. You know me too well. No, I did not tell him. I would not add that worry to his life. He is making plans for us to escape, but…”

“But he will not be back in time, before your pregnancy is obvious to everyone.”

Sara simply nodded. Fear had frozen had tongue.

“You must escape on your own. You cannot wait for him to…to return.”

Sara knew what Thea hesitated to say—if he returns.

Annachie could die never knowing that he had sired a child. That thought was quickly followed by another—if she could not find a way to escape, she and his child would be dead before he returned.

She had never told him the penalty she could pay for breaking her vow of chastity. Death by being buried alive.

Chapter Seven

Sara thanked all the gods that she had not been bothered too badly with sickness in the mornings. At least that had not given away her condition. Now, however, it was becoming more and more difficult to hide her growing belly under her gown. She tried to always lean forward so that the folds of her tunic would not tighten around the bulge, but of course that was not always possible.

Was she imagining it or was everyone staring at her as she walked by or knelt in the temple? Several times Sara had noticed Mother Sylvia watching her, and she had tried to shrink into herself.

Her plan of escape involved leaving from her father’s house. But before she could make the arrangements, her father had come home from Cisalpine Gaul.

He came to see her at the temple.

“Are you well, Sara?” he had asked.

She tried to laugh off his concern, but it sounded hollow even to her own ears. “Of course, Father, why do you ask?”

“You look pale and there are dark circles under your eyes.”

Sara didn’t doubt that, although she had no mirror to confirm it. She was not sleeping well, plagued as she was with nightmares. Some nights she would see Annachie bleeding or lying dead in a far-off arena, and she would awaken with tears staining her cheeks. On other nights she felt the horror of being buried in a small dark vault underground, knowing that with each breath she took she lost precious air. She would awake gasping for breath as cold sweat soaked her sleeping gown.

“I am fine. I am just not sleeping well of late. It must be the change of seasons.”

She did not tell him about Annachie, of course, and she prayed he would not find out until the two of them had made their escape. She considered asking him to help her get out of the city, but quickly dismissed that idea. He had been away from Rome and had not seen Annachie in the arena, but as soon as the gladiators returned, her father would know that Annachie had something to do with her wanting to leave. And if he discovered her pregnancy, Quintus would then know instantly who the father of her baby was. Sara was sure that knowledge would only reignite her father’s hatred of Annachie. He might help her escape to save her life, but he would make sure that Annachie suffered for what he had done.

She consoled herself with one thought—Annachie will be here soon. Soon, and then everything would be all right.

But she knew it would still be at least another month before Annachie returned.

“The emperor is sending me away again,” her father said.

“Where to?”

“Not as far this time. Only to Sicilia. To put down an insurrection. I must admit I feel I am getting too old for this type of campaign.”

She felt a tinge of regret at the thought of leaving her father. She would most likely never see him again. He had loved her more than her mother had, she knew that. Her mother had been disappointed that Sara was not a boy, Sara knew that too. But if her father had wished for a son, he had never shown it to Sara. The two of them were as close as a father and daughter could be, with never a cross word between them…until Annachie came.

“Take care of yourself, Father.” She blinked rapidly to keep her tears from falling. “I love you. Never forget that.”

He gave her a questioning look, then smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you, too, Sara. I will see you when I return.”

And then he was gone.

She would leave her father a letter, explaining everything, begging him to understand and forgive her, and saying she would write again when they were settled in their new home—wherever that might be.

* * * * *

A week later, Sara snuck out of the Vestal’s chambers for the last time. With her swollen belly, it was a tight fit, but she finally managed to squeeze through the small window.

She met Thea in the alleyway behind her father’s home. “Where are we going?” Sara asked the older woman.

“Letitia, a friend of mine, has agreed to help us. The house where she works is not far away.” Thea led Sara through a tangle of streets, down one hill and up the next. She could tell they were heading into a less affluent section of the city.

Their breaths puffed out in little white clouds as they hurried along. Sara pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Her nerves were on end, already chilling her, and the cold night air only made it worse. By the time they reached their destination, she was shivering from head to toe.

Letitia, a tall, thin woman of about Thea’s age, met them at the gate leading into the garden. “Come this way,” she said.

The night was just bright enough that Sara could see a bit of the house and grounds. They were not as well-tended as her father’s estate. The trees in the small garden through which they walked were in sore need of trimming, and the flowering plants wanted watering and replanting.

They followed Letitia to a small building in the far corner of the yard. Sara noticed that it was not easily seen from the house. “In here,” Letitia said.

The three of them crammed themselves into the tight space. Sara tried to move back a little and tripped over something.

“Careful,” Letitia said.

“What is this place?” Sara asked.

“The gardener was sold a month ago, and my master has not replaced him. This is the tool shed for the garden. You should be safe here, at least for a time.”

Sara’s gaze took in the extent of the small building. “There are no windows.”

“No,” replied Letitia, “it is only a shed, after all.”

Sara shuddered. “Please, do not let me run out of lamp oil. I could not bear it.”

“All right,” Letitia said.

Sara could tell the woman wanted to ask her some questions, and she would tell her in time, but not now. She turned to her old nursemaid and began to cry. “Oh, Thea, you were right. You told me to be careful. Now I have endangered my life and the baby’s.”

“I know, my precious girl, I know.” Thea embraced her and patted her back, trying to comfort her. “There, there, be easy. I will see that you get away from here as soon as possible. And I will tell him where you are going so he can find you. You said that young boy was going to help him escape.” Sara’s throat was so tight with sorrow and fear that she could only nod. “You will be together soon, I promise.”

Sara found her voice. “You have never made a promise to me that you have not kept, Thea. Thank you for making me believe that Annachie and I being together is possible.”

“There is a small cot along the back wall,” Letitia said, “and a chamber pot beneath it. When it is safe, you will be able to walk around a bit outside but it will not be often. I will bring you meals whenever I can but it might only be once a day.”

Letitia sounded so apologetic that Sara hastened to reassure her. “That will be fine, thank you. I know you are risking your position and perhaps your life by harboring me here. Why are you willing to do this?”

Letitia glanced at Thea and said, “We both know how it feels to lose the man you love. Just once, we would like to see a happy ending.” Then she smiled, “And if we can tweak the nose of the Empire in doing so, all the better.” She handed Sara the oil lamp she had carried, and the women left, closing the door securely behind them.

* * * * *

Sara marked the passage of time by the growth of the baby inside her. Rarely had she asked Letitia what day it was, for the woman had little time to do anything but give Sara food, empty her chamber pot, and replenish the oil lamp. The only things keeping Sara sane were her baby, thoughts of Annachie, and the lamp.

The oil lamp was her comfort, keeping the dreaded darkness at bay. At times, when the flame flickered as the fuel burned low, Sara would remember the darkness of the ancient forest in Caledonia, the grunts of the boar, and the pain. Oh, gods, the pain. Then the door would open and Letitia would be there with food and more oil.

Oftentimes Letitia would come late at night, after the rest of her household had gone to sleep. Occasionally she was able to bring enough water for Sara to take a sponge bath.

“How can I ever repay your kindness, Letitia?” Sara asked one night.

Letitia shook her head. “Just have a happy life with your baby and that man of yours.”

“Thea has not told you who he is?”

“No, and it is best that I not know.”

“Whom did you lose, Letitia?”

The older woman sighed deeply. “Thea and I are from the same village. I was in love with her brother, and she was married to mine. When the Romans came one day, our men fought back. The soldiers killed every one of them. They took all the women and sold us for slaves.”

“Oh, Letitia, I am so very sorry.”

At that moment, the baby gave an especially vigorous kick, and Sara instinctively placed her hand over her abdomen. Letitia smiled and bent over to kiss Sara’s belly. “Be well, little one.” Then she faced Sara. “And you, too, Sara.” She gathered up the bowl from Sara’s last meal. “I must get back now.”

Before Sara could thank the woman, she was gone…and Sara was left alone again in the tiny enclosure.

* * * * *

Marilla peeked out from behind the tall hedge bordering the garden. She watched Letitia close and lock the door of the tool shed across from where she stood.

What is she hiding in there? Or who?

One day, Marilla had seen Letitia gather up the table scraps and put them in a bowl in the pantry. “What are you doing with that?” Marilla had asked.

“There is a poor stray dog,” Letitia answered, “that comes to the back of the garden. I give them to him.”

But Marilla had begun to watch her fellow servant. There was no dog…unless he was living in the shed.

Then one day, while purchasing some food for the household, she heard a bit of news that might explain Letitia’s actions. The market was always a good place to learn the latest gossip.

“How could she have gotten away? Are they not watched day and night?”

Marilla’s ears perked up at the conversation between the two women next to her as she examined the fishmonger’s wares.

“Obviously not,” the other woman laughed, then grew serious. “Do you really think this will bring bad luck on the Empire?”

“I do not know,” the first woman replied. “In my lifetime, a Vestal has never run away. But the emperor must be worried that it will, considering the reward being offered.”

Marilla gasped as the pieces fell into place. It must be her, she thought. Marilla had heard about the Vestal Virgin who disappeared and about the reward, but had not given it much thought. But if the girl was hiding in the shed, and Marilla could aid in her capture… Well, with that amount of money she could buy her way out of slavery and still have enough left for a small house, and perhaps a servant of her own.

As she was wondering whom she should tell, she spied a group of soldiers talking in a nearby doorway.

* * * * *

The flame of the lamp sputtered and went out. Cold sweat broke out on Sara’s forehead. She struggled to breathe in the stuffy air in the shed. Despite her hunger, her stomach lurched and she vomited the sparse contents left from her last meal.

How many days ago had that been? Even though she had lost track of the days, Sara knew Letitia had not come for a long time. What had happened? Oh, gods, what if Letitia had been sold? No one else in the household knew that Sara was there. She could starve in here before anyone found her.

This is the fate that awaits me if I am captured. Sara began to pray to Fortuna, the goddess of good fortune, to help her to escape this place, to bring Annachie back to her soon, and to watch over them on their journey.

Just then, she heard the lock on the shed door opening. Thank you, blessed Fortuna, for smiling on your daughter.

The door opened. The brightness of the sun blinded Sara for a moment; she had to shade her eyes with her hand. This is wrong, she thought. Why would Letitia come in the daytime? Then, when she was able to see again, Sara felt as if her heart had dropped to her feet. Four soldiers and a woman she had never seen before stood in the doorway.

The soldiers grabbed her by the arms and dragged her out of the shed. They pushed her along the overgrown path of the garden toward a cart with bars on each side. The door to the cart stood open and heavy chains dangled from the top of the bars inside.

Before they shoved her into the cart, Sara looked back one last time. The woman was standing there, pouring coins from a cloth pouch into her hand as if counting them. On the ground next to her, Letitia’s body lay in a puddle of blood.

Chapter Eight

“You are vexing me greatly,” Antoninus said, his words clipped with anger barely held in check.

“Yes, Sire.”

They had lost no time bringing her before the emperor. Sara stood silently with her head bowed. She did not cry, but she did not try to hold back the tears, either. She was simply numb.

“I let you become a Vestal as a favor to your father for building my wall in Caledonia, even though you were scarred and much too old—”

“Yes, Sire,” Sara repeated. There was nothing else to say, for it was all true.

“And this is how I am repaid?” Antoninus roared now, giving his anger free rein. “You have brought bad fortune on the Empire.”

“She has been trouble from the beginning, Sire,” the aging Pontifex Maximus spoke up. He was lying, of course, probably to curry favor with the emperor. She had never been any trouble…that is, until Annachie had come to Rome.

She hoped Mother Sylvia would speak up for her. But the chief Vestal remained silent. This reflects badly on her, too, Sara thought, for I was under her supervision.

“She has let the flame go out on several occasions, and she is lax in her other duties as well,” the priest continued.

More lies. But Sara remained silent. It did not matter now; her fate was sealed and no amount of arguing would change that.

The men talked over her head and around her as if she were not even in the room. If I have that much power, why don’t you speak to me?

And then, Antoninus did. “Who is the man? Tell us so that he can be punished for his part in this.”

Sara shook her head and said nothing. She knew that Annachie’s punishment would be the same as hers—death—by one method or another.

Antoninus’ voice oozed sarcasm as he asked, “Was there no man? Are you telling me this is another virgin birth, like that Jew during the reign of Augustus?”

Again, Sara just shook her head.

“Have there been so many that you do not know who it is?” the Pontifex said with a sneer.

Sara gasped. “One man only,” she said slowly through gritted teeth, staring at the priest.

“Tell us his name,” the emperor ordered.

Sara again shook her head.

“Why do you protect him?” Antoninus softened his voice, as if that would persuade her to talk. “Why should he not suffer too for what he’s done?”

“Because it was not his fault, it was mine.”

Antoninus asked, “Surely he knew the possible consequences of your actions?”

Without thinking Sara answered. “No, he did not.”

“Hunh,” the Pontifex Maximus said, “then he is either very stupid, very naïve, or not a Roman.”

“Tell us his name,” Antoninus demanded again.

“Will it change my fate?”

“No.”

“Then what need have I to tell you?”

Antoninus signaled the guards who stood by the door of the audience chamber. “Take her away. The trial—huh, a mere formality, I should say—will be held tomorrow morning. If she is found guilty, and how could she not be, the ceremony will take place in the afternoon.”

“Wait,” Sara said. “Sire, I know that I have no right to ask any more favors from you, but please, please, Sire, let my baby be born first. Then I will gladly take my punishment.”

“No.”

“Please, Sire.” The tears that she had held at bay now flowed freely. “Do not punish an innocent babe for my wrongdoing.” She dropped to her knees, her hands outstretched, pleading. “Please, Sire, please.”

“No.”

The guards grabbed her by her arms and dragged her from the room, and still she begged. But the emperor was unmoved.

They put her in a cell under the Regia, the offices of the Pontifex Maximus. It was dank and cold, but at least there was air. A small barred window at ground level created a draft. This time tomorrow night, she wondered, how much air will I have?

She sat down on the small cot in the room and hugged her swollen belly. She did not even try to sleep. Soon she would sleep forever.

Thankfully, the cell was not completely dark. A faint light came in from the lamps of the city, illuminating all but the corners of her room. Occasionally, footsteps passed by and a torch, perhaps carried by a servant on some errand, would cast a fleeting beam of light into her cell. In that moment, she would glance around. Water trickled down the stone wall in several places, creating small streams that pooled on the dirt floor. The scurrying sounds she heard were indeed rats, just as she had feared. She pulled her feet up onto the cot and tucked them under her. The wall behind her was dry, thankfully, and she leaned against it.

For the first time she listened, really listened, to the sounds of the city. A wagon rumbled by, its metal rim scraping against the paving stones of the street. Footsteps pounded away as a man cursed the thief who stole his money pouch. Whores shouted bawdy invitations; occasionally men answered, some accepting, others rejecting the women’s solicitations.

Tomorrow night, she would hear no sounds at all. Tomorrow night, her world might be dark. She would have a lamp and a supply of oil, but she did not know how long it would last. From her experience in Letitia’s shed, she estimated it would only be a day or so before she was left in total darkness.

No Vestal had suffered this punishment in all the years she had been in the Temple and no one ever discussed it—they were too afraid.

She forced herself to think of Annachie—how it felt to lie in his arms, the fullness of his flesh inside her. She would never experience those sensations again, but at least they had been together for a short time. She could go to her death knowing what it was like to love him, and to have him love her in return.

The baby kicked, bringing her back to the present. “I am sorry, little one. If I could save you I would. I am sorry you have to die with me. You will never know your father. He is a wonderful man. He looks big and fearsome but he is not. Oh, my baby, forgive me for taking your life.”

She lay down on the cot and despite her resolve, cried herself to sleep.

* * * * *

In the morning, Mother Sylvia came down the ladder to Sara’s tiny cell. “Won’t you tell me the man’s name, child? He will want to know what happened to you.”

Sara knew that was not the real reason the Chief Vestal was asking. If they learned he was the father, Annachie would die too, and in a much more painful way than Sara would. “I will not tell you, Mother, I am sorry.”

“I am sorry, too, Sara.” Mother Sylvia laid a black stola, fillet and veil upon the cot. She started to leave, but then turned back. “I am told that the air in the chamber will last longer if you do not use the lamp.”

“Thank you,” Sara said. She knew that from her time spent in the shed. She wondered which she would fear more—the darkness in the underground room or death.

Sara removed the clothes that Letitia had given her and donned the black dress. Then she wound the black fillet around her head and attached the veil. She was struck by the appropriateness of the costume—wearing a black veil to go to meet her lover put her in this predicament, and she would wear one now to go to meet her death.

No sooner had she finished dressing than the soldiers came for her. They brought her up, roughly, out of the cell, tied her hands and feet, and shoved her onto a litter. When one of them tried to put a gag in her mouth, Sara resisted.

“The people must not hear your cries, girl,” he said.

“They will not,” Sara replied, “for I will not cry out.”

“All right, then, I will let it go. But one peep out of you, and I will bind you so tightly, you will scarcely be able to breathe.”

Sara marveled at the anger from the soldiers. How could one small, insignificant woman bring bad luck upon the mighty Roman Empire by the simple act of loving a man? Surely, the goddess Vesta had known love? Else why would she be the goddess of hearth and home?

Sara swayed, then braced herself as the litter began to move. Through the gauzy black curtains surrounding the cart, she could see the crowd gathered to watch her funeral—a funeral in which the deceased participates. The people lining the streets parted like a rip in a length of fabric as her pathetic entourage went by. Then, they all fell into step behind her. Women wailed, and men beat their chests in sorrow.

She did not see her father in the crowd and wondered if he was back yet from his trip. If not, how long before he learned of her fate. When he heard what she had done, would he even care that she was dead, or simply be glad to be rid of such a troublesome daughter. Could a father’s love survive such a disgrace as this?

They traveled only a few miles, but to Sara it seemed much longer…yet, at the same time, they arrived too soon. The same soldier as before reached in, cut the ropes that bound her feet together, and pulled her from the litter. She almost tripped when her feet hit the ground, but managed to recover her footing without falling to her knees. She was determined to go to her death with as much dignity as possible, considering what she had done to cause it.

As the guard pulled her forward by the ropes binding her hands in front of her, she saw, to the right of the Colline Gate, the Scelerato Campo—the Field of Sin. The gaping hole in the ground that was to be her grave had been dug only a few feet from the gate. The slab of concrete that would be the ceiling of her tomb covered all but a small opening. The top rung of a ladder protruded out of the hole. Soldiers with iron bars stood at the opposite end, ready to push the concrete in place after she descended into the chamber. Sara’s legs began to tremble, and she wondered how she would ever be able to climb down into that pit.

The people crowded closer, as if to watch her disappear into her grave. The soldier cut the ropes binding her hands together. Sara kept her hands on her belly, all the while silently apologizing again to her unborn infant for killing it by her behavior. Her only other regret was that Annachie would never know his son or daughter, nor indeed that she was going to have a child, before the two of them were killed.

“Citizens of Rome,” the Pontifex Maximus proclaimed, “today we gather to administer the punishment ordained for this woman for the crimen incesti, the loss of her virginity during the period of her priestly service to the goddess Vesta. By this action, the order of the Vestal Virgins is once more clean and pure. Let it be done.”

At a nod from the man, Sara began to climb down the ladder. She saw the priests, the other Vestals and all the spectators turn their backs to her.

I am already dead.

When she reached the floor of the chamber, Sara turned and saw the lamp, the flask of oil, the milk and the bread on a table next to a narrow cot. She knew the milk and bread would sustain her for a short while longer. She wished they hadn’t bothered; it would only make the situation worse when this sustenance was gone and her hunger and thirst grew, and she waited for the light to flicker.

The ladder was pulled out of the pit. Sara looked up as the slab slid across the top of the hole. When only a small opening was left, she heard the crowd erupt in a cheer. Then the only light came from the lamp on the table. She could not bring herself to blow it out. Tightness gripped her chest, and her breath came in short gasps. It was as if she was back in the shed, waiting for Letitia. But she knew that this time, no one would come to rescue her. She would never see the stars or the sun again.

She would never see Annachie again.

Sara knew that loving him for a short time was more than she had ever hoped for and she had thought it would be enough.

But it wasn’t.

“Annachie,” she cried. She tried to fight her panic, but in only a short time, it overwhelmed her. She scratched at the dirt walls until she had footholds, then she reached up and pushed against the roof of her tomb.

Her mind would not let her acknowledge that it had taken four soldiers with iron tools to move the slab over the hole.

* * * * *

It was almost midnight when Bato’s gladiators returned to Rome. The Dalmatian’s gladiators had not been much of a challenge and for that Annachie was grateful. But he was almost dead on his feet from traveling the rough roads of the provinces, so for once, he was glad to see the gladiator compound ahead of him.

He would talk to Micah in the morning, then tell Sara of the plans the next time he saw her. Soon, hopefully, they could get away from this cursed city and find somewhere to live in peace.

Rolf was the first one to greet him. “Ho, Annachie, you are three days too late, my friend.”

“For what?” Annachie asked.

“You should have been here on dies Saturni for all the excitement. Some little Vestal got herself pregnant and they held the ceremony on Saturday afternoon.”

The words seemed to bounce around in Annachie’s head—Vestal, pregnant, ceremony. But the odds were too great that it could be Sara…weren’t they? There had been other women in that seating area of the arena, wearing the same white clothing as Sara. “What ceremony?”

“Do you really not know?” Rolf’s mouth dropped open when Annachie shook his head. “When a Vestal Virgin breaks her vow of chastity, and what better proof is there, eh?” Rolf leered and wiggled his eyebrows.

A quick pain shot through Annachie’s gut. “What happens to her?” Annachie advanced on him until he backed Rolf against the wall. “Tell me.” Why was Rolf drawing this out?

Annachie saw the confused look on his friend’s face. “Why, they…they bury her alive.”

A chill ran down Annachie’s spine. No, he told himself, it wasn’t Sara, it must have been one of the other priestesses. Still, he had to make sure. “What was the girl’s name?”

“Annachie, brother, you look pale. You don’t mean…she isn’t the one you have been seeing all these months, is she?”

“What is her name?” Annachie cried, as he grabbed Rolf by his tunic, pulling the man to him until he was snarling in the big German’s face.

Rolf’s eyes widened and he tried to pull away. “Sara. They called her Sara.”

Annachie’s knees gave out and he fell to the ground. Oh, gods, what have I done? I have killed her. By loving her, I have killed her. His next thought was, Sara, Sara, why did you not tell me? He wanted to believe that had he known, he never would have made love to her. But he would have. After all the years of longing for her, he had to have her, but he would have taken precautions from the outset. He never would have risked getting her with child if it meant so terrible a punishment.

“By all the gods, Annachie, I didn’t know.” Rolf knelt next to him and put his hand on Annachie’s arm. “Listen to me. She is given food and water, or so I hear, and a lamp and oil for light. Her death will be gradual and easy. She might even still be alive, especially if she blew out the lamp to give herself more air.”

“She wouldn’t,” Annachie said, still in a daze. “She is afraid of the dark.” Suddenly, his mind grasped onto something else Rolf had said. “She might still be alive? How can we get her out?”

Rolf shook his head. “We cannot. The grave is near the Colline Gate, which is always guarded. And besides, how do we get out of here?”

A small voice spoke from behind Annachie. “I have the keys.”

Annachie turned to see Micah standing there, holding up a large iron ring full of keys.

He turned to his fellow gladiator. “Rolf, will you help me?”

“If I can, but the hole is covered with a thick concrete slab. I heard it took four soldiers to slide it over. How could the two of us move it off?”

“I do not know, but we will find a way.”

Micah opened the lock and the two gladiators slipped out.

“Hey, what about me?”

Annachie turned to source of the whisper. Cephus, a gladiator captured during a war in Gaul, waved at him through the bars of his cell. “I heard what you said. I can help you get her out.”

Annachie looked at Rolf, who shrugged and nodded. “We probably could use more muscle for that slab.”

Annachie still hesitated. He had always disliked Cephus, especially after he made the remark about Annachie “getting it up” only for Septimius. And he wasn’t quite sure he could trust Cephus; the man had always struck him as cowardly in the arena. But they could use his help, and for that, he would put aside his desire to kill Cephus for his lewd remark. “All right,” Annachie said, “let him out, Micah.”

They slipped silently out of the compound, and made their way cautiously through the streets, hiding in doorways and behind walls to avoid being seen. Rolf led the way to the gates of the city. They hid in the bushes beside the Colline gate, watching the two guards walk back and forth, until they had figured out the pattern. At a signal from Annachie, he and Rolf stepped out and grasped the guards from behind, choking off their breath and twisting their necks until they fell in a heap on the ground. Rolf grabbed the guards’ keys and opened the gate, then the four of them slipped through.

Off to the right, about fifty feet away, was the grave. Annachie stood for a moment, looking down, overcome by the idea of what Sara must be feeling down there—if she was still capable of feeling.

The cover of the hole was almost flush with the ground, rising only a few inches on each of the four sides. “We cannot lift it,” Annachie said, “but perhaps we can push it off.”

Rolf nodded.

“What do you think, Cephus?” Annachie turned to get the Gallic man’s opinion…only to see him running off into the bushes on the other side of the road.

“Damn you,” Rolf cried as he started to run after the man.

“Let him go, brother,” Annachie said. His heart felt like a lead weight in his chest. He too wanted to catch Cephus and beat him to within an inch of his life, but he knew that would waste valuable time. He had no idea how much time Sara had left…if any.

He and Rolf knelt in the dirt by the grave. They began to push, but could get no leverage. “It’s no use,” Rolf said. “We need a bar to put under it and get it shifted a bit to the side.” Annachie continued to push by himself. “Stop, man, you’ll kill yourself and be no use to her if…when we get her out.”

Annachie knew Rolf had started to say, “If we get her out.” It was in the back of his mind too but he refused to give in to his doubts.

“Will these help?”

The men turned to find Micah limping toward them, dragging two iron bars. “Where on earth did you find those?” Rolf asked.

“Over there,” the boy said, pointing to an area next to the wall. “They must have left them there after they…uh, buried her.”

“Thank your god for me, Micah. Come on,” Annachie said to Rolf, “we must hurry.”

Together, the two of them braced one end of the bars in the dirt under the roof of the tomb and began to lift. The cover gave slightly. They glanced at each other in surprise and bent to the task with more vigor. After a few more inches, Annachie was able to push his bar between the cement slab and the edge of the hole. Rolf followed suit and before long, the cover had moved enough that they could sit on the ground and, using the strength in their legs, slide it back about a foot.

Through the crack they made, Annachie saw no light coming from inside the tomb. “Micah, bring one of those torches over.”

The boy took a torch from beside the gate and handed it to Annachie, who peered down into the hole as much as he could. “Sara!” he called, but there was no response. It made him frantic to push harder and harder. He handed the torch back to Micah. “Hold it for us, lad.”

The opening was still not wide enough for a person, even one as slight as Sara if she were conscious, to fit through. “My end is pushed back farther,” Annachie said. “Come around here. We can slide this end, rather than try to push the whole top off.” Annachie sat on the ground again and pushed against the slab with his feet.

Rolf nodded, wiping the sweat from his face. “Good idea.”

Together they worked on one end of the slab and soon the opening was wide enough for Annachie to jump down into the hole. He was surprised that it wasn’t deeper, but with the concrete cover and the guards, the Romans must have felt safe that no one would be able to get her out.

“I can’t see her. Micah, hand me the torch.” Annachie took the torch and laid it across the small table next to the cot, with the flame hanging over the edge.

The light confirmed his worst fears. The lamp had burned out and Sara lay on the small cot, not moving. When he drew closer, he did not see her chest rising and falling with breaths. “Sara,” he called, then louder, “Sara!” He grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her gently. Still she did not move.

He heard Rolf speak from the ground above. “Sorry, brother, it seems we are too late.”

Annachie lifted Sara in his arms and hugged her to his chest. “No,” he murmured as tears began to pour down his face. “No, no, no, no. Sara, wake up.” But she did not respond. Something about her hand caught his eye. He lifted it and looked more closely. Dirt marked each crease in her knuckles. Her nails were broken and in some spots, dried blood formed a dark streak on her fingers. Her other hand showed the same signs of her struggle. Annachie fought back a wave of nausea, trying to dispel the image of Sara, horrified and desperate, attempting to claw her way out of this tomb.

He hugged her small, warm body more closely. Warm! Suddenly, through his distress, the realization came to him. He laid her back down on the cot and lightly patted her cheeks. “Sara, wake up,” he said, louder this time.

“Annachie, what are you doing?” Micah asked.

“She is not breathing but she is still warm. I must get her to breathe. How do I get her to breathe?”

“Pinch her nose closed, take a deep breath, and exhale into her mouth,” Micah said.

“What?” Rolf asked. “What are you talking about?”

“I have seen Galen, the physician, do it before. I have seen him revive people who were not breathing. It works,” Micah replied, then dashed Annachie’s hopes a bit when he added, “sometimes.”

Annachie prayed to every god he could think of—his own, the Romans’, even Micah’s god—then did as the boy instructed. “It did not work,” he said.

“Keep doing it,” Micah said, “it might take a few times. Do not give up.”

No, Annachie thought, I will not give up. I cannot lose her now. He tried again and again. He vowed to himself that he would keep trying until he lost his own breath. But despite his efforts, Sara’s chest did not move.

“It is not working,” Annachie said, fighting back more tears. “What do I—” Suddenly, Sara gasped, then coughed and her eyes briefly fluttered open. “Sara! Speak to me. Sara, wake up now. Breathe. You are going to be fine. We are going to get you out of here.” He knew he was babbling, but he said anything he could think of to keep her awake.

“Annachie.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and sounded hoarse. A chill ran through him. How long had she screamed before her voice, or her will, gave out?

Her eyes closed again, but she continued to take deep breaths and cough, and in a little while, she seemed to be breathing better.

“Come, we will get you out of here.” Annachie carried her over to the opening and handed her up to Rolf. Then he brought the torch and the little stool he found beside her cot, the one that held the empty lamp, to the edge. He handed the torch to Micah and hoisted himself up out of the grave. Rolf placed Sara gently in Annachie’s arms. In the light from the torch, Annachie saw that her color had returned and her breathing was steady, if rapid.

He looked up at Micah and Rolf. “Thank you, my friends.”

Rolf only nodded. Micah said, “We had best get out of here before the change of guards. Come on, I know where we can hide.” He put the torch back in its bracket on the gate. “We cannot risk the light drawing attention to us.”

“Wait,” Rolf said, “we should push the cover back. Then they won’t know she has escaped, and they will not look for her. Septimius and Bato will still look for us, but the Romans won’t know you are with her.”

Annachie nodded. “True.” He laid Sara carefully on the ground next to the wall. Then, he and Rolf sat down and used their feet to push the cement slab back in place.

“Hurry,” said Micah. “The new guards will be here soon.”

He had no sooner finished speaking than Annachie heard voices in the distance, coming down the road on the city side of the gate. The cover of the tomb appeared to be back in place, so the two men stepped into the shadow of the wall.

Annachie picked Sara up and balanced her in his arms. Rolf put his hand on Annachie’s shoulder. “Goodbye, brother. Take good care of her.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Annachie asked.

“No, I am heading home, where I belong.” Rolf pointed to the north. “Besides, Septimius will be looking for the three of us.” He glanced at Sara. “It is better that we go our separate ways.”

Annachie nodded. “Best of luck to you, Rolf. I am glad we never had to face each other in the arena.”

The Germanic warrior was already walking away, but his whisper carried in the still night. “Hah, me too. I would have hated to be forced to kill you, you pretty Pict.”

In seconds, Rolf too was swallowed up by the darkness, his soft chuckle drifting back to Annachie on the night air. Annachie turned to follow Micah. “Where are we going, lad?”

“The catacombs. We’ll be safe there for a few days, until she regains her strength.”

Annachie stepped in front of Micah, forcing him to stop. “What? You’re taking her from one grave to another?”

“Trust me, Annachie. The catacombs have hidden my people for decades.”

Annachie knew he still looked doubtful. Micah continued, “When she is able to travel again, I will take you to my family in Castrum Novum. You should be safe there until you are able to take ship for wherever it is you decide to go.”

“You are sure that I am not putting her in danger again?”

“We are escaped slaves and she is a disgraced Vestal under sentence of death. Where can we go that we will not be in danger?”

Chapter Nine

Was it a series of dreams or one long, terrible one? Sara hoped she was dreaming. Jeering crowds pelted her with refuse and screamed foul names at her. Horrible beasts charged at her from the darkness. And when she opened her eyes, she saw bones—skulls tucked in alcoves, feet and hands littering the dirt floor…

Then she remembered. They had buried her alive and now she was dead. She felt the heat from a lamp next to her head and marveled that the oil still lasted.

Suddenly another memory came back to her. She put both hands over her belly. It was still distended and firm. They didn’t wait, she thought. They let my baby die with me.

A keening wail filled the chamber where she lay, and bounced off the rock walls around her. It took her a moment to realize that the sound was coming from her own throat.

“Sara, shhh, hush now, you are all right.” A hand caressed her cheek. “Everything is all right.”

She turned her head to see Annachie leaning over her. “Oh, no, no! I am so sorry, Annachie. I did not tell them. I do not know how they found out it was you. I never meant them to kill you, too.”

“Sara, what are you talking about?”

“They wanted me to tell them the man’s name, the father of my baby. I wouldn’t tell them. They said you would be punished and I knew what they would do to you. I did not want you to die, too.”

“Oh, nighean, we are not dead.”

“What?”

“Rolf and I were able to move the cover and we got to you just in time. Another hour and I don’t think…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence; Sara knew what he was going to say.

She looked around the small room. “But the bones?”

“Micah has hidden us in the catacombs. We will leave here as soon as you get your strength back.”

“Rolf? Micah?” She shook her head, still confused. “Oh, I am so thirsty.”

Annachie helped her sit up and supported her with his arm behind her back. He held a cup of water to her lips. She sipped it as he told her about his two accomplices. She was becoming more aware now, and things were starting to make sense.

When she indicated she had had enough, he set down the cup and placed his large hand over both of hers on her belly.

“Oh, Annachie, it’s dead,” she sobbed. “Our baby is dead. I begged the emperor to wait, to let me give birth, but he refused. I am so sorry.” She turned her face into his tunic so she wouldn’t have to see his expression.

He stroked her hair with his other hand and kissed her temple. “Hush, nighean, it is all right. When we are away from here and safe, we can try again…if you want to.”

“Yes, oh, yes, I do. I want to give you a son, one who will grow up big and strong like his father.”

He hugged her tightly. “I would be just as happy with a wee girl as pretty as her mother.” After a pause he asked, “Sara, why did you not tell me what could happen? I would not have risked getting you with child had I but known.”

“That is why I didn’t tell you. I have always wanted you, Annachie. From the first time I saw you when my father’s soldiers brought you into the fort, I wanted your body. Then, as I got to know you, I fell in love with the man. When I learned that you felt the same way, I suspected you would not make love to me if you knew of the consequences should I become pregnant.”

“You are right, I would not have.” He paused. “No, that is not true. I had to have you, but I would have started to take precautions sooner. I wanted you so badly, I could not think straight.”

Sara laughed. “It is the same with me. I couldn’t be so close to you and not love you with my body as well as my heart.”

Suddenly, Sara heard footsteps approaching. “Annachie,” she whispered, cringing against him.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It is only Micah.”

“How do you know?”

“He is lame. I recognize his walk.”

Even as he said that, a young man came around the corner of the tunnel to the left of the chamber in which they sat. When he saw Sara, his face lit up with a smile. “Ah, you are awake.”

Sara nodded.

“I have brought you both some food and drink,” he said. He set a package and a wineskin down next to Annachie.

“Thank you, Micah,” Annachie said as he unwrapped the food. “Will you have some?”

Micah sat down on the ground in front of them. “No, I have eaten already with some friends of mine. When you are ready, we start for Castrum Novum.”

“Castrum Novum? Is that where we are going?” Sara asked.

“Aye,” Annachie replied. “We will stay there until we can get a ship to…well, somewhere.”

Sara frowned at him. “Where?”

Annachie shrugged his broad shoulders. “I do not know yet. I will think of someplace. Will you go with me, wherever it might be?”

“Of course I will.” She held his gaze with her own, as he lowered his head for a kiss.

Micah cleared his throat and smiled at them. “I will return later,” he said, rising to leave.

“You do not have to leave,” Annachie said, then chuckled. “I am hungry for food right now, as well.” He broke off a piece of bread and cheese and handed them to Sara. “How far is it to Castrum Novum?”

“If we could take the roads and travel by day, it would only take about a day and half. Traveling by night and avoiding patrols, we should be able to reach it in a little over two days.”

“Ah, I see. Well, as soon as Sara—”Annachie stopped speaking when Sara gasped. “Sara? What is it? What is wrong? Are you ill?”

She looked up at him, her hand on her belly. “No, I am fine. I-I felt the baby move.” Annachie simply stared at her. “Our baby is alive. Oh, Annachie, our baby.”

He hugged her so tightly, she almost lost her breath again. But this was a joyful breathlessness, the kind she always felt when she was with Annachie. Not that of fear and death. She thanked the gods for giving her a reprieve from her punishment. She took that, and the feel of the child shifting inside her, as signs that she was forgiven, that she and Annachie were meant to be together.

* * * * *

Sara slept most of the next day in Annachie’s arms, and he was more than content to simply hold her. When she grew restless with bad dreams, he smoothed her hair and kissed her temple. She seemed to hear him, for she would quiet then and relax against him.

Every time he thought back to the events of the last few days, he shuddered. He had come so close to losing her that even now, it made him weak to think about it. The sooner they could get away from this barbaric land, the better he would like it.

He awakened Sara when Micah brought them more food that evening. For a moment, she seemed confused and frightened again, but when he tightened his arms around her, she looked up at him and smiled.

Micah’s clothes were so wet, they clung to his skin. “There is a terrible storm raging outside,” Micah said. “I do not think it will blow through until late tomorrow night. If so, I will come for you then.”

Annachie nodded. “Whatever you think best. Does it seem that the winter storms have begun early this year?”

“Perhaps,” Micah replied. “I have seen many boats in Ostia tied down for the season.”

Sara turned to Annachie. “We should risk it. We have to get away from here as soon as we can.”

“No,” he replied. “I will not expose you to danger needlessly. And I will not have you giving birth on a ship somewhere on a stormy winter sea.”

“But Annachie, women do it all the time. I would not be the first—”

“No. If we have to, we will stay with Micah’s family until the babe is born, then leave in the spring.”

After Micah left, Sara said to Annachie, “You still do not want to go home.”

He gave a short laugh. “How did you know?”

“Because I know you. You once told me you did not try to escape because you believed you were a disgrace to you people.”

“Hmph, I am. Captured in battle, made a slave, forced to fight for my life for the sport of others. What is that if not disgrace?”

“I heard talk about you in Rome.” When he raised his eyebrow in question, she continued, “I know that you only killed those who would be unlikely to recover from their wounds. That you defied the sponsors of the games, even the emperor. You are the best fighter the Empire has ever seen. Surely that is an honor.”

“Is it?”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have survived when many men would have given up or rebelled and been killed.”

“Better a live coward than a dead hero.”

She raised her hand and caressed his cheek. “Is that really how you see yourself? You told me you are the eldest son. What father would not welcome such a man back to his home?”

Annachie covered her hand with his own, then turned his face into her palm and kissed it. “Thank you for those words, my little love. We shall see, won’t we?” He was not ready to tell her the other reasons he could not go back to his family and tribe. He knew he would have to, sooner probably rather than later, but for now, he would keep his shame to himself.

Thankfully, Sara did not press him. She brought his face down to hers and kissed him deeply. “Oh, Annachie, I love you so.”

“Mmmm, if you keep kissing me that way, I will not be able to control myself.”

“Then don’t,” she replied. She nuzzled his neck and slipped her hands up under the sleeves of his tunic.

It felt too good. “Stop, Sara.”

She pulled back and looked up at him. Annachie’s heart lurched at her hurt expression. “Why? You-you do not want me?”

“Of course I want you. I want you more than my next breath. But it is too soon after your ordeal and I do not want to hurt you or the baby.”

“You will not hurt us.” She leaned forward again and kissed the deep indentation above his collarbone.

Annachie shuddered. “No, nighean.” He took her by the arms and pushed her away slightly. “You must get your strength back.”

“Shall I show you just how strong I am?” Her voice had taken on a sultry tone he had never heard her use before. He decided he liked it very much. Her grin told him she was plotting something, and somehow Annachie knew that whatever it was, it could likely be the death of him. “Sara, what are you going to do?”

Instead of answering him, she pushed his shoulders back so that he was braced against the wall behind him. Then she reached down and eased his tunic up his thighs. As her lips followed the path of the material, Annachie felt his shaft start to harden and lengthen.

“By the gods, girl. What are you doing to me?”

Sara giggled as she pulled the tunic over his head, leaving him naked…and at her mercy. “I think you know quite well what I am doing. You have done it to me, so why should I not return the favor? But if you want me to stop…”

“If you do, I think I shall go mad. You have lit the fire, now you must bank it.”

Then he had no words, for her fingers were traveling, feather-light, up his thighs to his groin. She traced the tender skin in the valleys where his legs and body met, then followed with kisses, always careful, it seemed, not to brush against his burgeoning flesh. Annachie thought he would indeed go mad if she did not touch his cock soon but, too, he wanted to see what she would do.

In their nights together in the gladiator cell, she had sometimes taken the initiative, but to Annachie, it had seemed as if she was hesitant. He had attributed it to her inexperience. Knowing now what she had risked to love him and to make love with him, he thought it might have been her fear that held her back, even as she gave herself to him. The threat of death for loving him had hung over her head. Now, however, that fear was relieved—at least for the time being. Who knew what dangers lay ahead of them? But for now, for a brief time, they could forget and live in the moment.

So, he laid back and let her do what she would.

She kissed her way across his thigh and laid her soft cheek against his balls at the base of his cock. Slowly, lightly, she stroked his sac as she traced the engorged veins on the underside of his shaft with her tongue. Her other hand played in the tight curls surrounding his hard flesh. He watched her, straining to hold back his crisis. When she reached the tip of his member, she smoothed back the foreskin and probed the tiny opening, licking away the drop of pre-cum.

“Mmmm,” she purred, as if his fluid was a treat she was tasting for the first time…as indeed it was. The vibration of that purr made him harder than he thought he had ever been in his life.

But he was wrong. When she moved her mouth lower, taking him in until his tip touched the back of her throat, his shaft swelled to the point of pain. “Ahhh,” he cried.

She let his flesh slip from her mouth as she asked, “Am I hurting you?”

“You are killing me.”

“Is that so?” He only heard the smile in her voice for his eyes were squeezed shut. The feelings were so overwhelming that he knew he would not be able to hold back if he watched what she was doing to him. “Aye,” he sighed, “but what a pleasant death.”

He felt as well as heard her giggle as she took him in her mouth again, licking and sucking. Every muscle in his body tightened as he struggled to delay his completion.

Oh, blessed Druantia! He had never invoked the goddess of passion and mating before because, although other women had done these same things to him, he had never loved them as he loved Sara. It was all he could do to hold back his crisis.

Then she rose up on her knees and straddled him…and he lost the battle. As she settled down on his staff, he thrust into her. “Sara,” he cried, and shot his seed deep into her womb.

The next night, they started the journey into their new life.

Chapter Ten

Sara stubbed her toe on the paving stone. Immediately, Annachie’s arm came around her waist to catch her. “Are you all right, nighean?”

“Yes, I am fine.”

“Do you want to rest?”

“No, I want to get there. I am afraid we will be recognized and sent back.”

Annachie did not reply; his silence told her he shared her fear.

They moved stealthily through the night, Micah leading the way. The half moon shone through the trees, and shimmered in the rippling water of the Mediterranean Sea.

They had been walking since sunset, making their way to Castrum Novum. Micah assured them his family there would shelter them. “And it is a seaport,” he had told them, “so you will be able find a ship to take you home.”

Home, Sara thought. Her home was anywhere Annachie was, but if she had to choose, she would pick Caledonia. He was still adamant, however, that he would not return to his homeland.

It had taken Sara four days to get strong enough that her knees did not wobble when she stood. But she made herself move, the sooner to get out of the catacombs. The sight of the bones surrounding them was too much a reminder of how close to death she had come.

Micah had brought them blankets and more food for the journey. “How do you get all these things?” Annachie asked.

The boy grinned at him. “My people have built up quite a network to protect ourselves.”

“How can we ever repay you for all you have done for us, Micah?”

“There is no need, Sara. You have helped me escape as well. Until I met Annachie, I had not had the courage. Now I will see my family again, thanks to him.”

“Ha,” Annachie said, “you were the one who did all the work—stealing the key, finding the iron bars to move—” Annachie stopped and looked at Sara.

“Is that how you got me out? I wondered how only two of you, even as strong as you are, were able to move the slab.” A shudder ran through her as she remembered her time in the grave.

“We will not speak of it,” said Annachie. “It is over now.”

That night, they had started on their way.

Annachie held her hand or, as when she stumbled, put his arm around her waist to support her as they walked. They stayed to the road as much as they could, but frequently had to hide in the bushes bordering it when a patrol or a traveling merchant passed by. At this point, they were afraid to trust anyone.

The sky was lightening from dark blue to gray as they came in sight of the broad flat plain that separated Castrum Novum from the sea. “It is only about two miles into the city,” said Micah, “but I think we should wait until night to go in.”

Annachie shook his head in frustration. “So close, yet so far. But you are right, Micah, we should not risk it. What do you think, Sara?”

“Yes, I agree. We do not want to be discovered after all we have gone through.”

Micah found a small clearing in a grove of pines, with undergrowth that shielded it from view by anyone passing on the road. They settled down to wait for nightfall.

As she was falling asleep, Sara heard Annachie whisper, “Sara, look.” He was pointing to the east. “We slept so late on our first day of travel that we missed it, but there it is. Our first sunrise.”

“The first of many.”

* * * * *

Just before sunset, Sara went to a nearby stream to relieve herself and bathe. When Annachie was certain she would be safe, he returned to their hiding place. Micah was preparing their last small feast before they reached his family’s home. Annachie studied the young boy as he unwrapped the remaining bread, cheese, and strips of dried lamb. “How old are you, Micah?” he asked.

“Seventeen.” Annachie must have looked surprised for he continued, with a smile, “Yes, I know I look younger because I am small.”

“How long have you been a slave?”

His smile faded quickly. “Two years.”

Annachie wondered if it would help Micah to share his story. “What happened…if you want to tell me?”

“Septimius stopped in Castrum Novum one day.” Micah would not meet Annachie’s eyes. “He was looking for…for fresh young boys.”

Annachie’s body tensed. He feared he knew the rest of the story.

Micah continued, his eyes still downcast. “I was with a group of my friends. They ran away, but I could not run fast enough.”

Annachie’s nostrils flared and he let out a deep breath. He reached forward to clasp the boy’s shoulder. “You do not have to say anything more.”

Micah shook his head. Now that he had started, it was if he could not stop the words. “I fought him enough that he had to tie me down each time. I begged him to stop but that only seemed to make it worse. He was rough. It hurt. But-but I could not help it, I responded to his touch. I tried to go away in my mind to my home, my family, but I still—” Tears poured down Micah’s cheeks.

Annachie put his arm around the boy’s shoulders and squeezed. “I know,” he said, “I do know what you have gone through.”

Micah looked up at him. “He-he did the same to you?”

“Aye,” Annachie replied, “and he had to tie me, too.” Annachie continued to hold the boy as he calmed down. “I have known men who prefer…other men. And there is nothing wrong with that, if it is their choice. But what Septimius did to us was rape, and you have naught to feel guilty for.” It was easy to say that to Micah, but harder to convince himself.

Micah nodded, and went back to preparing the meal.

Annachie looked up to see Sara standing near them. Her expression told him that she had heard the conversation between him and Micah. Now she knows why I cannot return to my family. What does she think of me now?

* * * * *

At nightfall they made their way into the town, trying their best to be inconspicuous. The route Micah took led them down backstreets and around piazzas, rather than through. The fewer people who saw them, the better.

Finally they stopped before a door engraved with the figure of a fish. As soon as it opened, Micah threw himself into the woman’s arms.

“Micah, praise God. How did you get here?” Micah embraced his mother and kissed her cheek. Their tears ran freely. “Come in, come in.” She seemed surprised when she saw the other two people behind her son, but waved them in nonetheless.

“This is my mother, Rebekah,” Micah said. “Mother, this is Sara and Annachie, friends of mine.”

The small woman faced them, her hands folded in front of her. Streaks of gray highlighted her black hair. The delighted smile she had given her son faded until it did not quite reach her eyes. Rather she appeared wary as if, even though her son vouched for them, she was not sure she could trust them…or anyone. The look deepened when she gazed up at Annachie.

Sara bowed her head to the older woman. “I am so pleased to meet you.”

“People have already been here looking for you, Annachie.”

“Oh, no,” Sara said, turning to look up at him.

“Were they also looking for Sara?” he asked.

“No, only you. They were not soldiers. I believe they were from the slaver, the one who took Micah before. Fortunately, I could truthfully tell them I had not seen you.”

“And now you cannot.”

“And I will not. If I gave you up, I would also have to give up my son.” She caressed the back of Micah’s head and held him close to her.

Annachie knelt before her. “Rebekah, we are in your debt.”

Rebekah said, “Rise, Annachie, you are not a slave here.” The woman’s smile deepened again when she saw Sara’s belly. “Ah, a baby. My daughter is expecting her second child. And here she is now.”

From a door to their left, a young woman, almost as pregnant as Sara, and a tall, young man emerged. “Mother, are you talking to someone?” the young woman asked. Then she spotted Micah, ran to him, and hugged him as tightly as her rounded belly would allow. “Micah, you’re home. Oh, thank the Lord, you’re home.”

The young man also hugged him, then gripped Micah’s shoulders. “Welcome home, Micah.”

Rebekah gestured to the couple, but looked at Sara and Annachie. “As you might have guessed, this is my daughter, Rachel, and her husband, Jacob.” Then she turned to her daughter and son-in-law. “This is Sara and Annachie, friends of Micah’s.”

They each nodded at the other couple. Sara saw the same wary look in Rachel’s eyes that had been in her mother’s when she opened her door to them.

Rebekah clucked her tongue. “But where are my manners? Sit, all of you, sit and let me get you some food.”

“When is your babe due?” Rachel asked.

“Late winter or early spring,” Sara replied. “And yours?”

“In the spring. We shall be able to help each other.”

“Rebekah said you already have a child?” Sara asked.

Rachel glanced at her husband and laughed. “Yes, we have one who is two and a half. He is the terror of our household. You will meet him tomorrow.”

By then, Rebekah had arrived with bowls of thick lamb and barley stew.

Sara took a few spoonfuls. Despite her hunger, her stomach was in a knot of worry and fear—more for Annachie and Micah than herself. “You must realize we are putting all of you in danger,” Sara said. “If you want us to leave now, we will do so. Micah has saved our lives. We have no right to ask more of you and your family.”

“And where would you go?” Rebekah asked.

Sara shrugged. “I do not know, but we will be all right.”

“No, you will not. You may stay here as long as you need. I owe you that much for bringing my son back to me.”

Annachie gave a short laugh. “Rather, he has brought us to you.”

Rebekah smiled. “Either way, you are both welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

“Thank you so much,” Sara said. Her conscience still nagged at her. Rebekah did not know who she harbored. “But you should know—”

“Not tonight,” Rebekah said. “You must be exhausted after your journey. There will be time to hear your tales later.

While they ate, she made up beds for them on the floor of the main room of the house. “Micah can sleep on a pallet in my room. I am sorry I do not have a spare room for you, but alas, it is a small house.”

“Please, do not worry about us,” Sara said. “We are simply grateful to have a place to sleep.” She took another bite of bread and washed it down with the wine.

For the first time, Sara took a good look at Rebekah’s home. Although it was clean and neat, it was decidedly in a state of disrepair. One of the window shutters hung crookedly on its hinges. Drafts came in around the door and a roof tile slapped with each gust of wind. Jobs that a man would do, all left undone.

A question hung in the air, and Sara was hesitant to ask it. Rebekah said it was all right for them to stay, but was it her decision alone? Micah had not told them anything about his father. No one spoke about him and he did not appear to be in the house.

“Rebekah, you have welcomed us into your home, but what of your husband? Will he agree to sheltering us?”

Rebekah’s smile disappeared completely and she glanced at her son. “My husband was killed in a raid when Roman soldiers came looking for a man who had been trying to spread the word of our Lord.”

“Oh, Rebekah, I am so very sorry,” Sara said.

“I do as much as I can for Rebekah and most of our neighbors,” Jacob said. “The raid left us with mostly very old men and very young boys. But I am a fisherman. If I do not go out in my boat and catch fish to sell or trade, we do not eat. That is why the house needs so many repairs.”

“Is that why you have a fish carved next to your door? Because you are a fisherman?” Sara asked.

Their hosts smiled and glanced at each other. “No,” said Rachel, “we mark our houses that way signify that we are Christians, and that others of our beliefs can seek shelter here if they need to.”

Annachie shook his head. “But why a fish?”

Micah spoke up. “Our Lord told his disciples to follow him and he would make them fishers of men.”

“Do you know how to fish, Annachie?” Jacob asked.

“Aye.”

Jacob’s brow furrowed and he shook his head.

“That means ‘yes’,” Sara said.

“Sorry,” said Annachie, “sometimes I still slip into my own tongue. Yes, I fish.”

“I lost one of the men from my boat in the storm last week and I thought…if you could sometimes, perhaps…”

“Help you out? Of course. I have never fished from a boat before. I lived in the mountains and hardly ever went to the sea. I am sure it is quite different from fishing in a river. But if you are willing to teach me, I am willing to learn.”

“I would be most grateful for your help.”

“It is the least I can do to repay our debt to all of you. And I can help with chores around here, so it looks as if I can earn my keep,” said Annachie. “We do not have houses like this where I come from, but with your help and Micah’s, perhaps I can do the jobs of your men.”

“That would be wonderful, Annachie. Thank you.” Rebekah stood and started toward her room at the back of the house. “Tomorrow, we will make better arrangements, but now, I must let you sleep. Good night to you both.”

Rachel and Jacob said their good nights and went back to their room.

Sara and Annachie settled down on the bed before the fire.

Sara was too overwrought to sleep. She turned slightly and studied Annachie’s face in the moonlight coming in through the open shutters. Not for the first time, she thought about how close she had come to never seeing him again, how at this moment she could be dead instead of lying in his arms. A slight shudder ran over her.

“What is it, nighean?” Annachie whispered.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“No, I cannot stop thinking that I almost lost you.”

Sara gave a soft laugh. “I was thinking the same. I-I thought I would never lie in your arms again.” After a few moments, she said, “Annachie, do you still see me as a little girl?”

“What? No, of course not. I am well aware that you are a woman.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her, then laughed. “Why do you ask?”

“You keep calling me nighean. You told me once that it meant “little girl.”

“But it is also an endearment. Men of my tribe say it to those we love.”

“Oh, I see.” She lay quietly, thinking he had fallen asleep. So she was surprised when he whispered in her ear.

“You are still awake, Sara. It was a tiring journey here. Try to rest.”

“Are you tired? Do you really want to sleep now?”

Annachie chuckled softly. “Are you offering me another choice?”

“If-if you are not too sleepy.”

“Hmm.” He paused as if thinking. “Nay, too tired.” He settled himself more snugly in the blankets.

“Oh,” she said, the disappointment clear in her voice. “Good night then.”

Annachie waited a few moments, to see what she would do. It occurred to him that she was not used to having him joke with her. Their lives had been so fraught with danger and cruelty since the time they were together in Caledonia, there was little room for humor. He leaned up and kissed her temple. “Sara, I was teasing you. If I was taking my last breath, I would still want to make love to you.” Immediately, the inappropriateness of what he had just said struck him—Sara had almost, in reality, taken her last breath.

His apology was cut off, however, when she poked him in the ribs. “Stop teasing and do it then.” When he opened his mouth to laugh, she stopped it by kissing him deeply. At the same time, she raised his tunic and took his hardening flesh in her hand.

Annachie groaned. He bunched her skirt in his fist until he was able to touch the bare skin of her thigh. He slid his hand higher and higher, soon finding the tender center between her legs. Sara was already wet for him. Keeping one hand on his shaft, she reached around him and stroked the hard muscles of his back, down to the indentation at his waist and around to his firm buttocks.

Sara felt his whole body stiffen. Then she remembered the conversation she had overheard between him and Micah. She took her hands away and pulled back to look at him. “That is why you feel you cannot go home, isn’t it?”

His silence was all the confirmation she needed.

“Annachie, remember what you told Micah.”

“Aye, I remember what I said.”

“Then what is wrong?”

“I am ashamed.” He looked past her, not meeting her eyes.

“But you told Micah—”

“I know what I told Micah. But I am bigger and stronger than he. And Septimius. I should have fought harder.”

“Annachie, how many men did it take to tie you up when Septimius violated you?”

He nodded his head as if to acknowledge her point. “Several,” he said.

“Then, yes, you could have fought off Septimius, but you could not fight off several men at once. Annachie, you did nothing wrong.”

“But do I not disgust you?”

“Why, in the name of all the gods, would you disgust me? I love you. Nothing is going to change that, I promise you. Now, can we get back to what we were doing?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, it was if a change had come over him. He smiled at her. At that moment, Sara believed he would be able to get over the physical and emotional pain Septimius had inflicted on him, enough that eventually, he would be ready to go home.

She reached down again and grasped his shaft, squeezing it as she had been doing before. His erection had dwindled during their talk of Septimius, but now she could feel it harden and lengthen in her hand.

Annachie groaned again, deeper and longer this time, as his fingers played in her wetness, bringing her close to the edge.

“Annachie, I cannot wait any longer.”

He pulled her on top of him and reached down between them, positioning his hard rod at her entrance. “Neither can I,” he breathed. “Ride me, Sara.”

She lowered herself onto him and he filled her, stealing her breath. She began the rhythm, raising and lowering her body onto his as he rose to meet her with each thrust. He caressed her hips, her thighs and her rounded belly. The babe within her kicked as if in response to its father’s touch. Too soon it was over and they cried out softly, remembering even in their passion that Micah and Rebekah, Jacob and Rachel, slept in the other rooms.

He turned onto his side, taking Sara with him, and they slept.

Chapter Eleven

Sara opened her eyes the next morning to find a tiny version of Jacob staring at her. “Well, good morning.”

His eyes widened as if he had not expected her to be able to speak, and he squealed and ran toward his parents’ room. His mother stood in the doorway and he ran into her legs, clasping them tightly.

Rachel lifted the child up and planted him on her hip. “Good morning, Sara. This is David, who is, as I told you, the little terror. We never lack for entertainment with him around.” The little boy grinned and planted his head in the crook of Rachel’s neck.

“Salve, David, aren’t you a big boy?”

David giggled, but turned his face away from Sara. “He is at that age, shy around people he does not know.”

“I understand.” Sara rested her hand on her belly.

“Soon you will understand many things about babies.”

By this time, Annachie was stirring. “Where is Jacob?”

“Oh, he left before sunup,” Rachel said. “That is when the fish are most active, or so he tells me.”

“He should have awakened me to go with him.”

Rebekah was already cooking breakfast. “In due time,” she said as she served them porridge. “Today you can rest.”

With breakfast over and cleared away, Rachel gave Sara water to wash with, and one of her dresses and a shawl to cover her head. Sara was very glad to be clean and out of the dirty black stola, and all that it represented. She ignored the questioning looks of Rebekah and Rachel when she threw the hated garment in the fire.

“I am very glad to have you both here,” Rebekah told them as they all sat together to mend and sew.

Annachie had already begun work repairing the things on the inside of Rebekah’s home. He and Rebekah thought it best to let some time pass before he was seen outside; with his height and muscular build, he would surely be noticed. Micah tagged along as his helper, fetching tools and handing Annachie the supplies as he needed them.

Rebekah glanced back at her son. “I think Annachie will have a good effect on him. I cannot imagine what he has gone through at the hands of the Romans.”

Sara kept silent. Micah could tell his mother of Septimius’ abuse if and when he chose. Sara knew it was not her place to do so. Instead, she nodded. “Annachie is a good man. I believe he already thinks of Micah as a little brother. And we are both grateful to him. If not for him, we could not have escaped.”

“How did you and Annachie meet? He has a strange accent.”

“He is a Pict. My father’s soldiers took him captive when we lived in Caledonia.”

“Caledonia? Where is that?” Rachel asked.

“Far to the north and west, above the land of the Britons. My father was Antoninus’ legate there for almost four years.” Sara smiled and gave a short laugh.

“What is funny about that?” Rebekah asked.

“They were building a wall to keep the ‘savages’ out of lower Britain. Annachie asked me once if the Romans ever stopped to think that the wall also kept them out his land.”

Rebekah smiled. “Did the two of you travel back to Rome together?” She must have seen the sorrow in Sara’s face, for she quickly added, “Forgive me. It is none of my business.”

“No, Rebekah, it is your business. You have opened your home to us, so you should know who it is you harbor.” At Rebekah’s puzzled expression, Sara continued. “Annachie is an escaped gladiator. The same man who held Micah as a slave owned the gladiators.” Sara knew she was not telling Rebekah anything that Micah would not tell her himself. “I am…rather, I was a Vestal Virgin. When it was discovered that I was with child, I was buried alive.”

Rebekah and Rachel gasped in unison. Rebekah said, “They really do that? I had heard rumors the Romans did that to their priestesses, but I found it impossible to believe.”

“Hah,” Sara said, “believe it.”

“Oh, Sara, I am so sorry. The Romans, such barbarians. How can they do that to people?”

Sara looked closely at Rebekah. “I am surprised that you, a follower of the man they call Christ, can ask such a question, considering what they did to him.”

“Yes, I had not thought of that,” Rebekah conceded.

“And they call Annachie’s people savages.”

“But surely, if they believe you to be dead, they won’t be looking for you,” Rachel said.

“That is my hope. But they could still be looking for Annachie. He was quite valuable to Septimius and I have to think he would do whatever he could to capture Annachie and bring him back to Rome.” Not to mention, she thought, the other purpose to which Septimius put Annachie.

Rebekah shook her head. “Perhaps he will give up and find another man to use as fodder for the arena.”

“You are together now, that is all that matters, is it not?” Rachel said.

“Yes, we are together for now. But there is always the risk that Annachie or I or both of us will be recaptured, and we will not live to see a new day.”

Rachel opened her mouth, as if to ask a question, then quickly closed it.

“What is it, Rachel?”

“If I may ask…why were you separated?”

“I do not mind that you ask.” Sara took a deep breath, and resumed her story. “Annachie saved me from an attack by a wild boar. He nursed me back to health, but after that, I was very afraid of the dark. The forest was so dark, you see, where I encountered the boar. My father kept Annachie chained in the stable and I would go there when I couldn’t sleep or had a nightmare. I had a lot of nightmares. He held me. He did not…we did not make love. I was fifteen, and I wanted him, but I did not think he was interested in me that way. I thought he was only being kind.

“Septimius came to visit us one day, looking for slaves to bring back to Rome and sell. When he saw Annachie, he told my father the slave would make a good gladiator. The morning Septimius left, my father found me sleeping next to Annachie in the stable. Father thought the worst, of course.”

“Of course,” Rachel said, shaking her head. “How awful for you.”

“More awful for Annachie than for me. My father gave him to Septimius. Just gave him away. Father could have made a fortune from a warrior such as Annachie.”

Sara shook her head. She had not been surprised by her father’s vehement reaction, but she did wonder that he wouldn’t listen to her explanation. She had always thought he trusted her and he treated her as if she was older, more mature than her years. But finding her in the bed of a slave must have been more than even he could tolerate.

“I watched until Septimius’ caravan was out of sight, then I took a dagger—Annachie’s dagger—and slit my wrists.” She showed the women the scars on her arms. “I did not want to live without him. My nurse found me though before I bled to death. Father had me examined to be sure I was a virgin. Then when we returned to Rome, he begged the emperor to allow me to join the Vestals.”

Rebekah asked, “But why? If you were still a virgin, surely he could have made a good marriage for you.”

“I told him that if he forced me to marry anyone, I would keep trying to kill myself until one day, I succeeded.”

Rebekah moved to sit beside Sara. She slipped her arm around Sara’s waist and hugged her close.

* * * * *

Before long, their lives fell into a routine. Annachie, disguised with a loose, hooded cloak, would go out fishing with Jacob in the early morning hours—before too many people were awake to wonder who the stranger was and become curious—then tend to Rebekah’s house after they returned. This freed Jacob to help his neighbors while keeping Annachie out of sight as much as possible. He also helped Jacob with work he could not do by himself. Sara assisted Rebekah and Rachel with the household chores. As often as she could, she would play with David, getting used to the idea of being a mother.

They felt as safe as they could under the circumstances, since Septimius’ men had already been there and the Romans, hopefully, did not know Sara was no longer buried by the Colline Gate. Still, they were always careful of who was around.

Rebekah had insisted that Annachie and Sara take her room while she and Micah slept in the main part of the house. They had protested until Rebekah told them of a special feature of the room.

“We Christians are also used to hiding from the Romans.” Rebekah reached down and pressed a mechanism hidden in the wall. Sara heard a click, and the bed sprang up a short distance from the floor. Rebekah lifted the bed and smoothed aside some dirt. Sara watched as she knelt and pushed down on a piece of one of the floorboards until she could slide it under the adjoining plank. Then she hooked her fingers under the wood and lifted. A trap door rose, revealing a hidden chamber. A short ladder led down into the darkness. “If anyone comes looking for you, you can hide down here. Micah can go to Rachel’s room—she and Jacob have a place just like this under their bed.”

Sara looked down and felt the bile rise in her throat. She must have gone pale too because Rebekah said, “Oh, Sara, I am so sorry. I forgot for a moment what you went through.”

Annachie slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. “If we have need of it, I will be with you, you know that. I will not let anything happen to you now, Sara, not when we are so close to escaping.”

Sara nodded but could not speak. She silently prayed it would not come to that.

As it turned out, they were not as close to escaping as they had wished. Storms blew in off the Mediterranean with distressing regularity and very few boats risked leaving port. Of the ones that did, Annachie refused to consider them. He had seen the captains and the crews and knew that Sara would be safer staying in Castrum Novum than with such disreputable looking men, who spent most of their time in the taverns and brothels by the seaside.

Annachie and Jacob were also confined to land during the storms. Annachie would do as much work outside as he could, but most often the foul weather kept him shut indoors. As time went on, he grew more and more impatient for spring. But he still didn’t know where he and Sara would end up. Rather, he thought, the three of us.

I am going to be a father. As Sara’s belly grew larger and he felt his child kicking inside her, he marveled at that fact. And vowed to himself that he would give up his life if necessary to protect them.

Sara and Rachel talked and sewed infants’ clothes, and Rachel prepared Sara for the impending birth. Soon, she began to feel comfortable and safe with Micah’s family.

But she and Annachie both were careful not to let their guard down. And there were still times when an overwhelming sense of foreboding would come over her and a pang of fear shoot through her.

* * * * *

“It is time to go, your grace.”

Lucius looked up to see his young assistant standing in the doorway to the Pontifex Maximus’ office. “Yes, I am coming.”

It was one of his duties to perform rites at the Vestal’s tomb to appease her ghost and ensure the welfare of the empire. Usually, Lucius enjoyed this duty, but today he dreaded it. Not because it didn’t give him great pleasure to imagine the corpse of that sinful girl rotting away beneath the slab. Oh, no, he liked the thought of that.

But today, the ground was covered in a thick layer of snow and he knew his old bones would suffer because of it. He had rarely seen snow in his lifetime, and never this much of it, especially in Februarius. It is her doing, he thought, the little bitch.

It still galled him that Antoninus had let the woman be admitted to the ranks of the Vestals. Too old, scarred, it was sacrilege to even consider her as one of the purest of women in the empire. No wonder she had broken her vow; he recognized the weakness of her character as soon as he saw her. Now she even vexes me from the grave by sending this abysmal weather.

He donned his warmest robes and cape and followed the younger man down the street to the Colline Gate. The guards unlocked the heavy iron doors and Lucius and the boy walked through. He was not surprised to see that none of the citizens had come here today; as much as they had lamented the Vestal’s actions, it was obviously not enough to bring them out in such foul weather. He was glad of that for it meant he could rush through the service and get back to his warm rooms in the Regia.

He began to recite the words carefully, having never done this before. But as he looked down at the slab over the tomb, something about it kept niggling at the back of his consciousness. It didn’t look right for some reason, but with his mind preoccupied trying to remember the words of the service, he could not figure out what was wrong.

To make matters worse, it had started to snow again. He watched the snow start to pile up on the top of the tomb. He followed one particularly large flake as it fell…

And then it struck him.

Lucius’ words stopped in mid-sentence.

Whereas the snow had built up in a small mound on three sides of the slab over the grave, on a portion of the fourth side there was nothing. Literally nothing. No snow lay there, only a dark, unbroken line.

He stepped closer and looked down at the tomb.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

Chapter Twelve

For several days, Sara had been feeling uneasy. She tried to brush it off as anxiety about her impending labor. But deep inside, she feared it was more than that, a premonition perhaps that something was going to happen to her or Annachie…or both of them. She knew she had to have a plan for their baby if her worst fears were realized.

She broached the subject with Rachel one day as they kneaded dough for bread for that evening’s meal. “Rachel, will you promise me something?” Sara asked.

“Of course,” Rachel replied. “We have become close friends. If there is something I can do for you, I shall.”

“If anything happens to me after the baby is born, will you take care of him? Raise him as your own, until he is old enough that Annachie can take him away from here?”

“Oh, Sara, you mustn’t say that. Do not even think it. Nothing is going to happen. You and Annachie are safe and when the babe is born, the three of you can go where you will be forever safe.”

“I pray that you are right. But I shall not be easy until we are away from here, hopefully beyond the emperor’s reach.” If there is such a place, Sara thought.

“Well, even though I am sure everything will be all right, I would be honored to care for your child…until you can come back for him and care for him yourself.”

“Thank you, you have taken quite a burden off my mind. And Rachel…tell Annachie not to come after me. His son will need him and I will not have him throw his life away to save me.”

Rachel hugged Sara as closely as their bellies would allow. But she did not promise the last favor Sara asked.

* * * * *

Rachel’s promise to care for their baby eased Sara’s mind…enough so that in bed that night, she had other things on her mind.

“Annachie?”

“Aye?”

“Are you very tired?”

His laugh was deep and gravelly, a sound that always gave Sara a shiver of longing. “I know what that question means. I think I told you once—I shall never be too tired to love you. But you are only about a month away from giving birth. I do not think it would be a good idea to—”

“I know what you are going to say, but you will not hurt us. I have thought of a way we can make love that will be very gentle.”

He chuckled again. “Have you now? And is that how you spend your time, thinking of ways to make love?”

“A good part of my time, yes.” She grinned at him.

“Well, then, show me this method you have thought of.”

“We will get to it…eventually.” She nuzzled his ear, sending chills from his head to his toe. Down his neck, across his chin, she kissed him until he thought he would go mad if she did not find his mouth soon. And then she did. She parted her lips, sucked his tongue into her sweet mouth. His cock rose between them, straining to find its home inside her. She slid farther down in the bed until she was level with his chest. With the tip of her tongue, she bathed each flat nipple until it hardened, then nipped it with her teeth. Oh, that such a tiny pain could bring such pleasure, he marveled.

She rose over him, and with her lips, traced the path of fine dark golden hair down his belly to the thick curls surrounding his shaft. When her nose nudged his engorged flesh, he gasped. Against his thigh, he could feel the infant kicking. For a moment, his worry about hurting her or their child by doing this so close to her lying in almost stopped him. Almost…but he knew he was too far gone at that point. He had to find release.

And he was more than curious about what she had planned.

Still, when her lips closed over his phallus, he almost came in her mouth. “Sara, have pity. I cannot hold out much longer.”

She giggled. “All right. Turn on your side.”

He did as she asked. They had made love on their sides before, face to face. But now that her belly was so big with his child, it was no longer an option. Still he wondered what would be different. Then, with her next action, he knew.

She lay on her back and scooted close to him, in contact with his groin. She raised her legs and rested them over his hip. Then she reached down between her legs and guided his shaft into her opening.

“By the gods,” he breathed.

She grinned at him. “So you like it.”

“Oh, yes, I like it very much,” he replied. He leaned up on his elbow and kissed her breast, tracing the paths of the blue veins beneath her white skin, while his other hand slid over her swollen belly and slipped between her legs.

“Oh, Annachie.”

“Now it is my turn to torture you,” he said, between nibbling and licking her nipple. He tightened his buttocks and eased himself in and out of her passage.

“Ah, such sweet torture it is.” Sara gasped as Annachie traced her nether lips with his finger. She felt herself becoming wetter and wetter, the moisture seeping out around his flesh as he stroked her. When he found her sensitive nub of flesh, she cried out softly and pressed tighter against him.

She leaned slightly to the side and probed between Annachie’s legs until she found his sac. She gently rolled his testicles in her hand until he too cried out.

One last stroke of her swollen bud sent her over the edge. He stiffened against her and she felt his hot seed spilling inside her.

It was some time before they were able to catch their breaths and longer still before Sara lowered her legs to the bed. She was reluctant to break the connection between them. For some reason, she had the feeling it would be a long time before they would be this close again.

* * * * *

“It is impossible!”

“I would have thought so too, Dominus, but it is true. The slab has been moved and her body is not in there.” Lucius’ knees shook as he faced the emperor. The Pontifex Maximus prayed Antoninus would not somehow blame him for the girl’s disappearance. But it was under his auspices that the sinful Vestal had been tried and punished. Damn the little whore, he thought. She haunts me still.

“We do not know when the grave was opened or that she was alive, Sire, when she was taken from the grave. Someone could have simply taken her body.”

Antoninus growled in Lucius’ face. “You had best hope it was the latter.” He began to pace about the room. “First a virgin conception, now a ‘stone’ rolled away. This has an oddly familiar ring to it. Are you telling me this is another “divine intervention” by that god of the Christians?”

Spittle flew from the emperor’s mouth, and Lucius found himself leaning backward to try to avoid being sprayed. “Of course not, Sire. She must have had help.”

“I know that, you idiot, but who? Who could have done it?”

Frightened by Antoninus’ anger, Lucius could only whisper, “I do not know, Dominus.”

“I want to send soldiers to look for her, but where would they begin? She could be anywhere in the empire by this time.”

“Excellent point, Sire, excellent point.”

Antoninus gave him a jaundiced look and Lucius felt a chill go through him.

* * * * *

“Soldiers!” Micah gasped as he burst through the front door. “Soldiers are coming.”

Rebekah, Sara and Rachel had just finished clearing away the evening meal, while Annachie and Jacob mended nets for the next day’s catch. Micah had been returning from taking the families’ waste buckets to the city’s public latrines for dumping. He would bend over and exaggerate his limp to make people think he was an old man. He said he didn’t mind this duty, but Sara always wondered how the boy could stand to perform such a noisome task.

Tonight, however, she was glad, for that was when Micah saw the soldiers. She knew the emperor would not waste his valuable manpower searching for two escaped slaves.

It could only mean that Antoninus knew she had escaped.

She stared at Annachie, a shiver racking her body. To be found now, when they were so close to getting away was unthinkable. “Annachie?” she whispered.

He nodded. “Aye, they must know.”

Rebekah was the first to move. “Quickly,” she ran into her, now their, bedroom. Sara heard her release the mechanism hidden in the wall.

Annachie got up and took Sara’s hand. “Come, nighean.”

Sara nodded and followed him into the room…then stopped abruptly.

The bed was up against the wall, and the black maw of the hiding place gaped before her.

“An-Annachie, I can’t.” She hadn’t realized she was staring at the hole until Annachie took her by the shoulders and shook her gently.

“Sara, listen to me. You know the fate that awaits us if they find us here. But if you really cannot go down there, we will take our chances.”

“I cannot do it, Annachie, I cannot…do it.” She was sobbing now.

He took her in his arms. “All right, all right. But we must leave here and find another place to hide. Rebekah and her family are also in danger if we stay here.”

Sara had not thought of that. She turned to Rebekah. “Rebekah, I—”

“Do not worry, Sara, we will be fine. I know how hard this is for you.”

“No,” Sara said, coming to her senses. “No, I will not put you at risk after all you have done for us.” She turned to Annachie, and nodded. “Help me down.” Yet even as she said it she realized she was still shaking.

He gave a quick hug. “That is my brave Sara. Come.”

He went first, then reached up to help her down. As soon as Rebekah dropped the trap door back into place, however, Sara’s courage failed her. There was no light at all in the tight space. And the smell, oh gods, the smell was the same as her burial chamber in Rome. She could feel one wall of the enclosure against her back. If she reached around Annachie, she knew she would be able to touch the other side. Her shaking increased until her teeth chattered.

Annachie’s strong arms engulfed her. “Sara, everything is all right, I am here with you. I will never leave you, I will never let anything bad happen to you, ever again, I swear it.”

She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder. “Annachie, I am so afraid.”

His warm breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Do not be afraid, my little love. When the soldiers have gone away, Rebekah will come for us and let us out of here.”

A terrifying thought suddenly occurred to Sara. “What if Rebekah and the others are killed? No one knows we are here. No one will come to let us out. We will both be buried alive.” As a scream built in her throat, she burrowed into Annachie’s shoulder to mute it as best she could.

Annachie was silent for a moment. That had not occurred to him either, she thought. Then he said, “That will not happen, nighean. Someone will come.”

To Sara, it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as well as her.

“Until then, I am with you. I will protect you, you know that. I have always protected you.”

She nodded against his chest. “You have. You saved my life twice. But I fear Antoninus will not stop until I am well and truly dead. And you and our baby will die with me.” She muffled a sob in his tunic.

“Hush, nighean.”

Suddenly, Sara heard stomping feet above them. She felt rather than saw Annachie look up; he had heard them, too. Sara whimpered and hugged Annachie tighter. He stroked her hair and rubbed her back, warming and soothing her. Between them, the baby kicked as if to protest being crushed between the two larger bodies. If Sara hadn’t been so frightened, she might have found it amusing.

“Annachie,” she whispered. “They are going to find us.” She felt the tears running down her cheeks. “What are we—”

She had meant to ask him what they were going to do, but she knew there was nothing they could do. They would be caught and they would die.

But before she could finish her sentence, Annachie’s mouth came down on hers.

He kissed her deeply and fiercely. He held her face between his strong hands—hands that could be so cruel in the arena, yet so gentle with her. With his tongue, he explored the depths of her mouth. His lips closed around her tongue, sucking gently. She followed his lead and did the same to him and was rewarded with his whispered moan of pleasure. They parted only long enough to take a breath.

He combed his fingers through her hair and cupped the back of her head, and still his mouth ravaged hers. Sara knew what he was doing; if he kept her mouth occupied, she would not cry out and give their hideout away. That was all right with her—she felt on the verge of losing her sanity, and only Annachie’s kisses kept her from screaming and clawing at the dirt walls, just as she had done in her grave.

A sound above their heads abruptly separated them. Light poured into the darkness of the hole. They had been discovered.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Sara cried, and clung to Annachie. She turned her head away from the light and buried her face in his tunic again. She could not bear to look at her captors yet; she wanted only a moment longer to pretend that it was just the two of them and they were safe.

“I am sorry, nighean,” Annachie whispered in her ear. “I—”

“Sara. Annachie.” A man’s voice called down to them…and Sara knew their time together was over.

Then she heard Annachie laughing. She looked up to see Jacob, smiling, above them. Rebekah, Rachel and Micah peered over her shoulder.

“They are gone. You can come out now.”

Sara’s relief was so great she sank to her knees. She shook so badly that Annachie had to lift her out of the hiding place into Jacob’s arms. She began to cry again, on the verge of hysteria. She cried with relief and she cried with fear…a bone deep fear that never left her, no matter how safe they had been up until tonight.

“Surely Septimius did not persuade the emperor to send soldiers to look for me,” Annachie said.

“He didn’t,” Jacob said, not smiling now. “They were looking for Sara. They know you escaped.”

Sara screamed…then her world went black.

Her labor started the next morning…a month too early.

Sara tried not to scream. She gripped Annachie’s hand so hard, she was afraid she would break his fingers.

Rebekah must have read her mind for she said, “Go ahead and scream. We all do it.”

So with the next contraction, Sara did. She glanced at Annachie when the pain subsided. He looked pale and she felt sorry for him. She vowed to try not to scream again.

But with the next pain, her resolve failed. The midwife peeked under the sheet covering her legs. “I can see the head crowning. It won’t be long now. You are doing fine, Sara. With the next contraction, push as hard as you can.” The woman had no sooner finished speaking than the pain hit Sara again, a wrenching, squeezing pain that felt as if her insides were being crushed. She bore down and pushed as hard as she could. “That’s it, Sara, your baby is almost here. Once more should do it.” Sara tensed as the next contraction started; they were so close together she could not recover between them anymore. She strained and pushed and suddenly it was if the pressure had been released. Then she heard a cry, weak at first, then louder and louder until the baby’s first wail filled the room.

“You have a beautiful boy, Sara. Annachie, here is your son.” The midwife held the baby up for them to see.

Exhausted Sara fell back onto the bed and looked up at Annachie. The look of worry had left his face and he stared at the red-faced, squealing infant. Then he smiled and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds on a gray day. He turned to her and whispered, “Thank you, my love.”

Sara smiled. “Thank you, too, my love.”

* * * * *

The patrol rode through the forests of Gaul on their way back to camp. Deer and small animals darted out of their path as they passed, but the men did not stop to hunt them. They had been out for a week and were weary, cold, dirty and irritable.

Suddenly one of the men called out, “Hey, did you see that?”

The rest of the column slowed but did not stop. Their leader, a centurion asked, “See what?”

“Something was moving over there,” he said, pointing to a huge tree about a hundred yards away from where they rode.

“Ah, only an animal,” the centurion said.

“No, it looked like a man. When he saw us, he ducked behind that tree.” The soldier pointed to a large oak several yards away.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go see why this man feels he needs to hide from us.” With the centurion leading the way, they left the road and crashed through the thick underbrush. They had only gone a few yards when the man darted out from behind the tree and began to run away. He was no match for the horses and they caught up to him quickly. They surrounded him and hemmed him in with their steeds.

“What’s the hurry, friend?” the centurion asked.

“No hurry.”

“Then why were you running away from us?”

The man forced a laugh. “You frightened me. I thought you were bandits.”

“Not likely,” the leader said. “How many bandits have you seen wearing the uniform of a Roman soldier?”

The man appeared more and more nervous. “It is getting dark, I couldn’t tell what you looked like.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Going home, sir, just heading for my home.”

“Which is where?”

“Nearby,” the man said, clearly deliberately evasive.

“How near?” The centurion was losing his patience and becoming quite suspicious.

“Hey, I know you,” one of the other soldiers cried out. “You’re a gladiator.”

“Ha, me? No, you’ve got the wrong man, not me.”

For the first time, the centurion noted the muscles clearly visible beneath the man’s tunic. “What’s your name?”

Before he could answer, the soldier who had recognized him said, “You’re the one called ‘The Terror of Gaul’, aren’t you?”

“No,” he scoffed, “that’s not me.” The man started to inch backward slowly and the centurion knew he was going to bolt any minute.

“I remember you now. You were one of those three gladiators who escaped back in the autumn. Septimius has been looking for you.”

“Yeah, and there’s quite a reward on your head.”

“Tie him up and throw him over your saddle,” the centurion directed one of the cohort. “We’ll divide the reward among us.”

* * * * *

Bato brought the whip down on Cephus’ back for the fifth time. The man twisted, trying to evade the lash, and his voice sounded hoarse already from his cries. Bato could not fathom why Septimius insisted that he give Cephus one hundred strokes. It served no purpose but to weaken him and make him no good for anything for weeks until the stripes healed—if Cephus could survive the punishment. If he is screaming like this at only five strokes, what will he be like at twenty, fifty, seventy-five?

“Stop, stop, please stop,” Cephus begged.

“I’ll tell him to stop when you tell me where the others are,” Septimius said.

Bato looked to his left where Septimius sat in an enormous chair, not watching but studying his nails as if unconcerned. I’ll bet the emperor’s throne is not that big, Bato thought, but then again, Antoninus is not as fat as Septimius.

Septimius had almost danced for joy when the soldiers brought Cephus back to the gladiator compound. Bato still remembered the temper tantrum the man threw when he discovered three of his gladiators and a slave had escaped and disappeared without a trace. Bato had found no sign of the slave or the missing gladiators when he went to Castrum Novum, where the boy had lived before his capture, and Septimius obsessed almost daily about where they could have gone.

The loss of the Beast of Caledonia had angered the slaver most of all. Bato knew what Septimius did with his slaves, but he usually left the fighters alone…except for the Beast. Then there was the money Septimius had lost by not having the Beast to fight in the arena. The man had been in a foul mood all winter and he took it out on those who were still around him.

Now he had one of his gladiators back. And he was determined to find the others by taking it out of Cephus’ hide.

“I don’t know where they are, I told you. We split up. They didn’t come with me.”

“You must have heard them say where they were going.”

“I didn’t, I swear it.”

Septimius nodded at Bato, who brought the whip down on Cephus’ back again. “No, stop, please. I don’t know anything.”

Bato couldn’t help but wonder how a man could fight in the arena and not tolerate a few stripes. Then he thought back to some of the contests and practice sessions where Cephus had danced around his opponents, dodging blows and running away. A saying came to Bato’s mind, He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day. He couldn’t remember where he had heard that, but it certainly fit Cephus. He struck the sniveling man again.

“Stop. I’ll tell you if you stop.”

Bato looked to Septimius again, who nodded. “Tell us,” he said.

“I only know that they said something about going with the boy, the lame one.”

“We have already been to the boy’s home. We didn’t find any of them there.”

“That’s all I know, I swear by all the gods. I told them I would help them move the cover, but I didn’t. I knew I was in enough trouble by escaping. I was not about to add that crime to the list.”

“You are making no sense. What crime? What cover?” Septimius asked.

“The tomb. They were going to Castrum Novum after they got the Vestal out.”

Septimius sat up straighter in his chair and Bato almost dropped the whip. “What?” cried Septimius. “What are you talking about?”

“They went to try to save the Vestal, the one they buried last autumn. The Beast wouldn’t leave without her.”

Septimius cackled. “You can stop, Bato. I must go and see the emperor.” The man stopped and seemed to ponder something for a moment. “On second thought, slit his throat. He never was that good in the arena…and no fun at all in bed.”

* * * * *

“But where have they gone?” Antoninus demanded. “I know they all escaped, you dolt, but where did they go?”

Quintus had never heard the emperor so angry.

“I do not know,” Septimius said. “My men went to Castrum Novum where the boy lived, and they were not there. But Cephus says they are together. It should not be difficult to find them.”

“If it is not difficult, why haven’t you found them yet?”

Septimius had the grace to look shamefaced.

Antoninus cast a jaundiced look at Quintus. He had just returned from Sicilia when Antoninus sent for him. He thought it was because the emperor was anxious to hear his report. He never dreamed he would get the news he did when he went before Antoninus. This man had my daughter buried alive! His next thought was that he could guess now who one of Septimius’ escaped gladiators was. Though faded by the weather, announcements of games in the arena starring “The Beast of Caledonia”, one of Septimius’ fighters, still adorned the walls around the city. It was not hard for Quintus to put the pieces together.

I tried so hard to keep them apart, yet they found a way to be together. And at what a cost! Quintus knew that if he had just not overreacted that night he found them together, if he had trusted his daughter and let her explain, let them be together, none of this would have happened. Quintus had come to regret his actions that night, but never so much as he did now.

“Pavo,” the emperor called to his adjutant standing nearby. “Send some men to Castrum Novum and find her. Tear every house apart if you have to. I want that Vestal.” Antoninus started to turn away, then seemed to have another thought. “Oh, and Pavo—”

The soldier slapped his upper left chest with his right fist. “Sire?”

“Tell them to wear something other than their uniforms.”

Pavo looked puzzled. “But, Sire, why?”

“Think, man,” Antoninus replied. “They will be watching for soldiers. No uniforms, no caution on their part.”

Pavo saluted again and left the room.

“But, Dominus, what about my gladiators?” Septimius whined.

“To hell with your gladiators, man. Because that girl didn’t die, the fortune of the Empire is at stake.”

Quintus’ mind reeled, trying to think of a way to save his daughter if the soldiers found her. He silently prayed to the gods that they would not. He suspected he had pushed Antoninus too far, so he could not beg a favor of the emperor again—especially not in this instance. But there had to be something he could do. “Sire—”

“Silence, Quintus. I want to hear nothing more from you ever again! I have bent over backward to accommodate you and that whore of a daughter of yours, but no more! You are finished in my army as of this moment. I will not strip you of your holdings or wealth, but I suggest you go somewhere very, very far away. If you choose to stay in Rome, the gods help you if we ever cross paths. Now get out of here.”

Quintus bowed and left the room. He did not mourn the loss of his commission or the emperor’s favor. Antoninus had not taken away his property and possessions, and Quintus had enough to live on for the rest of his life.

But he would give it all up and beg in the streets for a few denarii a day, if it would save Sara’s life.

Hopefully, Annachie had already gotten her away from Castrum Novum and away from this land altogether. She had been so happy in Caledonia. Take her there, Annachie, and live in peace.

* * * * *

Drust had finished nursing. Sara watched him nod off, her nipple still in his mouth, his tiny fist lying on her breast. He was almost a month old now, and Sara was relieved to see that he was growing, daily it seemed, and gaining weight. She had worried that he would not survive long after having been born so early. But he was a “strong, wee lad”, as Annachie had called him. Very strong, Sara thought, just like your father.

Despite her joy at having Drust, Sara was almost sick with worry. They had evaded capture by the soldiers who had come through the town before Drust was born. And in just a few days, they would set out on their journey to Eire. But Sara would not feel safe until they were on the sea, away from Antoninus, Septimius, and the Pontifex Maximus.

Her only regret was leaving Rebekah and her family. She had come to love Rebekah as a mother and Rachel as a very dear friend, the only one she ever had now that she thought about it.

As if reading her mind, Rachel said, “I will be so sorry to see you and Annachie leave. I have so enjoyed our time together.”

“I was thinking the same thing. You wouldn’t consider coming with us, would you?”

“Oh, no.” Rachel looked horrified at the mere idea. “I could never travel that far from here, even if I were not burdened with two children. You do not know anything about this land where you are going, do you?”

“Not really, but Annachie says it is very much like his homeland, and I loved living in Caledonia.”

“And you would be happy anywhere he is.”

Sara laughed. “That is true. I would be happy living in a cave, as long as he was with me.”

Rachel put aside her sewing. Sara watched her heave her body out of her chair. Her belly was so big, she could hardly stand up. When she got to her feet, she was out of breath.

“What do you need, Rachel? Let me get it for you.”

“No, it is all right. Do not disturb that sweet little boy of yours. I should move around anyway, I am getting to be a lazy sow. And as big as one.”

They laughed together as Rachel dipped a lifted the flagon which held the family’s drinking water. She made an exasperated sound. “It is empty. I shall go to the fountain and get more.”

“Oh, no, you will not.” Sara laid Drust down in the little basket that served as his bed. “You should not be carrying heavy jugs, or your baby girl will come early like Drust did.” Sara put on her cloak with the hood that covered her hair and shaded her face from the view of casual onlookers. The few times she had gone out, she bent her back to appear as an older woman. She would have to be even more convincing now…now that the emperor knew she had escaped her tomb.

“I can wait until Mother returns from visiting Talia.”

“Talia lives five streets away, and you do not know when your mother is returning. You are thirsty now.”

“Sara, you cannot go.”

“Yes, I can. I will not let you risk your child’s life for a drink of water.”

“But you would risk your own?”

“It is not such a risk. The soldiers have gone. No one has seen any of them here for weeks now.”

“Well, you should not be carrying heavy jugs, either, so soon after your delivery.”

“Better me than you,” Sara said as she took the bucket from Rachel’s hand. “And I won’t fill it all the way, so it won’t be so heavy.” She opened the door.

“Sara?”

Sara turned back to Rachel and waited. She thought she knew what Rachel was going to say. Every time Sara went out, Rachel always told her to be careful. She laughed and said, “Yes, Rachel, I will be careful.”

“How do you know it will be a girl?”

Surprised, Sara only smiled. “I just know. You will see. I will be back soon.”

“Sara?”

She began to laugh again. “It will be a girl, trust me on this.”

“Be careful.”

* * * * *

Sara was relieved to see there were not many women in the public square at this time of day. Even in March, the midday sun was quite warm and there was no shade around the fountain. Most people were resting before preparing the evening meal or relaxing in the shade.

She saw two women bartering with a merchant at a market stall, some other women were walking away, chatting, after having filled their water jugs. Two men sat dozing against one of the buildings in the square. A wealthy person went by, carried in a litter by four servants. Sara remembered the last time she had ridden in a litter—on the way to her grave. She shuddered and turned away.

She kept her head down and her hair covered as she bent over the fountain to fill the bucket. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two men who she thought had been asleep, coming toward her. The flagon was barely a quarter full, but she knew it was time to leave. One of the men could come and get more water this evening.

She turned around…and they were right behind her.

“Where are going in such a hurry, old mother?”

“I have to go home, Sire,” she said, making her voice as raspy as she could and bending further forward to give the impression of age. “My daughter is waiting for me.”

“Well then, let me carry this for you.” He tried to take the jug from her hands, but she would not let go.

“No, Sire, there is no need. I do not live far.”

“Then it should be no trouble for me to escort—” He grabbed her hand and held it up in front of his face. “Your hands look quite young for an old crone.”

“I have been fortunate, Sire.”

Sara saw him exchange a look with the other man. That one said, “Push your hood back so we can see your face.”

Gods help me, she thought. They were just men, not soldiers. Now she began to fear that they had other intentions toward her. But she still tried to talk her way out of this predicament. She cackled, “Why do you want to look upon the face of an old crone, young man? Surely there are more comely women who would be more pleasing to your eyes.”

Without another word, the first man wrenched her hand so that she dropped the jug. It shattered at her feet. Water splashed her dress and soaked into her shoes. He grabbed her other hand as well. His accomplice reached up and shoved her hood back, exposing her face and head.

“Well, what have we here?” the first one said.

She saw the second man nod. “It’s her.”

They began to drag her toward one of the narrow streets. Sara struggled to get loose. “Please, let me go. I have done nothing wrong. Let me go!”

Who were these men? Who did they think she was? They were not dressed as soldiers, so the emperor must not have sent them. What did they intend to do with her?

They rounded the corner into an alley. Two horses were tied there, and Sara saw many of the accoutrements a soldier would have with him.

Now she knew. It felt as if her stomach had dropped to her feet. Oh, Annachie, my love. Do not come after me. Please, blessed Venus, keep him away.

One of the men picked her up by the waist and hoisted her into the saddle. Then he swung up behind her and grabbed the reins. “Let’s go, little Vestal. The emperor wants to have a word with you.”

As they rode away, two thoughts crossed Sara’s mind. She hoped that Rachel remembered her promise to take care of Drust.

And…Rachel would still be thirsty.

Chapter Thirteen

“You’re a very hard woman to kill,” said Antoninus.

“Then why do you keep trying to do it?” Sara knew it was the wrong thing to say, that it would only anger the emperor…more than he already was. But she owed him no respect now. And what did it matter? She knew that this time, she would surely die. Even Annachie could not save her now.

Antoninus apparently chose to ignore her temerity. “Where are the men who helped you escape?”

“Why?”

“Interfering with your sentence is a crime. They will be punished.”

“I do not know where they are now.” Sara hoped Antoninus would miss the slight emphasis on the word “now”. But she was telling the truth. She had no idea where Rolf was, and she did not know exactly where Annachie was at that moment. She suspected—and hoped she was wrong—that he was on his way to Rome.

“You were pregnant when we buried you. What happened to the baby?”

“I miscarried in the burial chamber.”

Antoninus looked as if he didn’t believe her. He stared at her for a long moment. Sara held his gaze, praying she did not give the truth away with her face. Finally he said, “Good. At least that obstacle is taken care of. Now I must decide what to do with you.”

He paced around her in a circle. Sara kept her face forward, waiting for the pain of a knife or sword in her back. Please, let that be it. Get it over with. I am tired of waiting.

Then Antoninus was in front of her, staring at her again, studying her. Suddenly, he smiled. “I have it! I will make you wish you had died in that hole. Your death will not be so easy this time.”

“Easy?” Sara cried. She was past caring how she spoke to the emperor. He had confirmed that she was to die, so what did some insolence matter now? “You think it is easy to be buried alive? To know with each breath that you are slowly suffocating? To wait for the lamp oil to run out and the darkness to close in on you? Do you think that easy?”

His eyes were hard. “You brought it upon yourself. No one forced you to break your vow.”

Sara knew she could push Antoninus over the edge by her next question. “Do you love your wife?”

The look of fury on his face showed that she had been right, that she had goaded him too far. She hoped his anger would force him to kill her quickly. Drust was safe with Annachie and…in time, Annachie would find someone else to love. That thought almost dropped her to her knees.

“That is no business of yours,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

Sara persisted. “If you do, or if you have ever loved any woman, you will understand why I broke my vow.”

“Damn you, girl! This time you will die more quickly, but not so painlessly. That I promise you. Take her away.”

The guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her out of the room. They threw her into a wagon with iron bars and drove her through the streets. Word of her escape from the tomb and subsequent capture must have spread throughout the city, for everyone they passed turned their backs on her. It was bad luck to look at the dead—especially one such as she.

* * * * *

Rachel scanned the rough surface of the waves, watching, praying for Jacob’s boat to appear. It was late afternoon so she knew her husband and Annachie would be back soon. Not soon enough, she thought.

It had seemed to her that Sara was taking an awfully long time to fetch the water. She had just decided to go and see what was keeping her when suddenly people started to run past her. She stopped one woman and asked her what was happening.

“Soldiers,” the woman replied. “They were not dressed in uniform, so we had no idea.”

Rachel felt a chill run down her spine. “What did they want?”

“I do not know. I did not wait around. Last I saw, they were approaching one of the women at the fountain.”

Rachel could barely ask her next question; her mouth had gone dry with fear. “What…what did she look like?”

“I did not look at her that closely, but I do know she was a stranger to me. I have never seen her in the square before,” the woman replied.

That was all Rachel needed to hear. Sara had rarely gone outside Rebekah’s house, and even then, mostly at night. No one in the town would have recognized her.

Rachel bundled Drust in her shawl, forming a makeshift sling across her chest. Then she swung David onto her hip and ran as fast as she could to the town square. She arrived just in time to see the soldiers ride off. One of them had Sara mounted in front of him.

By the time she got back to the house, Rebekah was there and Rachel told her what had happened. She left the children with her mother and went down to the shore, hoping that perhaps, for some reason, the men had returned early. They hadn’t, of course, so she waited pacing back and forth along the waterline.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, Rachel became more and more frantic. Finally, far in the distance, she spied a familiar-looking sail. She waved her arms, even though she knew they were still too far away to see her. Still, it made her feel as if she was doing something. She had felt so helpless when the soldiers took Sara. She promised Sara she would look after Drust, but she had not promised she would tell Annachie about Sara’s wish that he not come after her. She knew that was a waste of breath. Annachie would go to the ends of the earth to get her back.

It seemed as if hours passed before the boat finally ran aground on the beach. The men must have seen her agitation for they both jumped from the boat and ran to her.

“Rachel, what is it, what is wrong?” Jacob asked.

She looked at Annachie rather than at him. “Oh, Annachie, they’ve taken her.”

Annachie felt a pain shoot through his gut. To come so close to getting away, only to have it all destroyed in the space of one day. “Who took her? Where did they go?”

“The soldiers, I suppose they are taking her back to Rome. Oh, Annachie, I am so sorry. There was nothing I could do. She had gone to fountain for me. I tried to stop her but she said she would be safe. I am so sorry—” Her voice broke off with a sob.

“Shhh, Rachel, it is all right. You could not have stopped them.” He turned to Jacob. “I need a horse.”

Jacob nodded. “I know of one. It is not a fast steed, though.”

“As long as it can get me to Rome, it will still be faster than walking.”

Jacob hurried to some friends and made arrangements for them to sell his catch. Then the men ran back to the town, while Rachel followed as quickly as she could. Jacob took Annachie to the house of a merchant who had a carthorse. Jacob had been right—this horse would not win any races, but it looked sturdy enough and strong enough to make the trip.

Annachie swung up onto the horse’s back. He reached down to clasp Jacob’s hand. “Thank you, my friends. With the help of the all the gods, we will both see you again. If not…”

“Your son will be safe with us,” said Jacob. “God go with you, Annachie.”

* * * * *

The stake to which she was tied pressed into her back. Ropes bit into her wrists and arms, and were wrapped so tightly across her chest she could hardly breathe. That…and the fear.

The sun beat down on Sara’s head. She felt her face burning and almost laughed. I am worried about a burn from the sun when soon I will be dead? How foolish.

But how, she wondered. Antoninus had warned her this would not be an “easy” death, but what did he have planned as her execution?

Sara glanced around the huge arena. The Coliseum appeared even larger from its floor than when she used to sit in the seats. The murmuring of the crowd became louder as the time for the start of the spectacle drew closer. Well, they are certainly looking at me now. The Romans never let superstition interfere with a good show. Most of the crowd jeered at her and many made obscene gestures. Several men lifted their tunics and waggled their cocks at her. Once in a while, she could hear a rude comment or curse above the general noise of the throng. Bitch. Whore.

Sara closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath. It was so unfair of them to call her such. She had only loved and made love to one man in her life. That hardly qualified her to be a whore.

She glanced at the seats to her left. The emperor had her staked out in the middle of the arena, so she knew all the Vestal Virgins had a clear view of her punishment. As a warning, she supposed, of what could happen to them if they ever did what she had done. She saw the little girl who took her place. A beautiful child. I hope you never fall in love, Sara thought.

She followed the row of white gowns to the first seat. There sat Mother Sylvia. The woman looked at her, then lowered her head. Sara knew she had disappointed the Chief Vestal, and wondered if that woman had ever been in love herself. She had, at times, seemed sympathetic to Sara’s plight. But she had her job to do, and would not let her own feelings get in the way.

Suddenly, trumpets sounded. Sara suppressed a shudder as she watched Antoninus stride in and take his seat in his box. She felt his gaze burning into her, hotter than the sun scorching her from above. And behind Antoninus, her father. She could not clearly see his expression. Was he glad to be rid of this troublesome daughter? Or did the emperor require his attendance to watch this final shame?

A guard walked toward her. He carried something in his right hand that Sara could not identify, but she saw more ropes in his left hand. He stopped right in front of her and reached up. He was much taller than she and had no trouble reaching over her head. He tied something there, sneered at her and squeezed both her nipples, hurting her. She felt two wet spots on her tunic where her milk seeped from her engorged breasts and a vision of Drust sprang into her mind. She had tried not to think of him through this ordeal; he was lost to her and it only hurt more to know she would never see him again in this lifetime.

The guard’s laugh brought her back to the moment. He turned and walked back through the doorway from which he had come. It took Sara only a few moments to catch the scent of the thing hanging above her. Meat!

Now she knew what the emperor had planned for her. Oh, gods, help me. Please help me!

Antoninus gave a signal. Four gates around the arena opened simultaneously. There was a brief moment when nothing happened; nothing or no one came out of the tunnels.

Then she saw them.

Four huge tigers emerged and looked around. The noise of the crowd frightened them for a moment and they cringed and crouched down. But when the cheers died down some, they stood up and began to pace around the arena.

Sara knew the exact moment that they picked up the smell of the meat. Almost as one, the tigers sniffed the air and their golden eyes turned to her. With that, she knew she was dead, and this time there would be no reprieve.

As the big cats stalked toward her, Sara’s only thought was, strangely, How beautiful they are.

* * * * *

Annachie rode all night to reach Rome. Not until he was almost there did he wonder how he was going to find her. Was she taken to the Vestals’ quarters, or to a prison? And if so, what prison? The only one he knew was the gladiator compound that had been his own prison. He had never been out of his cell or the arena long enough to become acquainted with the city. If he stopped and asked someone about a captured Vestal who was supposed to be dead, they might think he was insane.

By the time he got to Rome, he almost was insane from wondering how to find her.

As it turned out, he need not have worried. As soon as he entered the city, he saw the advertisements painted on the walls of almost every public building he passed.

People of Rome

Today in the Flavian Amphitheater

The Vestal who escaped death by burial

will be the main attraction.

She will not escape death this time!

A cold chill ran through Annachie. When was that notice painted? It had taken him all night and half a day of hard riding to get here. Was he a day too late, or did the notice mean today?

He kicked the tired and lathered horse with his heels and headed for the Coliseum.

He was still a good distance away when he heard the trumpets. He knew from experience that they signaled the entrance of the emperor into the theater. Then the roar of the spectators reached him and he knew that today was the day Sara would be killed. Would there be more contests before “the main attraction”? He prayed to the gods he was not too late.

He circled the arena until he found the one entrance he was familiar with—the one the gladiators used when they went to their underground cells. Only one guard was on duty at the tunnel. When he tried to stop him, Annachie made quick work of him, knocking him unconscious with one blow.

He ran down the passageway, past the cages of wild animals and the cells of criminals who, in addition to the gladiators, provided fodder for the “games”. The roar of the crowd grew louder as he neared the ramp that would take him into the arena. Gladiators sat on benches lining the walls before the ramp. Annachie recognized several of them as opponents he had met in battle. Some of them owed him their lives.

“What is happening?” he asked one of them.

The man nodded toward the incline. “It’s the little Vestal. The emperor is making sure she doesn’t survive this time.”

Just then, Annachie heard a roar that raised the hairs on his neck and made his bowels clench. He raced up the ramp, only to find his way blocked by three guards who stood in front of the gate, watching the activity in the arena.

“Get out of my way,” Annachie said, shoving one of the guards aside.

“Where do you think you’re going?” another one asked as he stepped in front of Annachie, pointing his spear at Annachie’s heart. The first guard had recovered his footing and grabbed Annachie from behind. The other two moved in back of him and held him at spear point. Annachie brought his elbow back and into the gut of the first guard. The man reeled back and dropped to the ground. Annachie knew he would feel the spears of the other soldiers very soon, but he had to try.

Suddenly, those guards too seemed to lurch backward. Annachie turned to see that the gladiators had each one in a headlock, and one of them was pulling on the rope to raise the gate.

“Go, brother, save her if you can,” one of them said.

“Thank you, all of you,” Annachie said. He grabbed a spear and sword from one of the soldiers and charged into the arena…only to see four large tigers circling Sara, who was tied to a stake in the center of the field.

Above the roar of the tigers, Sara heard a human voice yelling. Then she saw Annachie running toward her, a spear and a sword in his hands. He drove the tigers away from her with shouts and jabs of the weapons. The big cats roared and hissed at him, but backed away…at least for the moment.

He ran behind her and sliced through the ropes binding her to the stake. “Go, run to that gate,” he said, pointing to the opening where the gladiators stood.

She began to run, but soon saw that he was not following her. She turned back in time to see the first tiger attack him. “Annachie!” she screamed and started toward him.

“No, Sara, get out of here. Go!”

She stood frozen in place, wanting to help him but not knowing how. Then she remembered seeing other men dressed as gladiators standing at the gate. Surely they would help him, he was one of them.

By this time Annachie had killed the first tiger but another one was stalking him. Sara saw the animal’s back legs working and she knew it was going to pounce. It amazed her that this huge, wild beast made the same motions as its smaller relatives— the soft, gentle cats she used to hold in her lap.

She whirled and ran to the gate but just as she got there, she saw guards forcing the men back inside and then the metal grate slammed down with a loud clang.

Sara was trapped outside.

And there was no help for Annachie.

She grasped the bars of the gate. “Please, help him, please,” she begged the guards, but they just shook their heads. Some of the gladiators behind them would not meet her eyes, others appeared angry. “Please,” she pleaded one last time, then sank to her knees in the sand, still grasping the bars.

She could not look behind her. She had been told how Annachie had easily killed the boar that attacked her in Caledonia, but a boar is smaller and there had been only one of them. Sara knew that no man, not even one as strong and as good a fighter as Annachie, could best four hungry tigers. The only question was how long it would take them to tear him apart.

At an especially loud roar from the crowd, Sara forgot her resolve not to look. She turned, expecting to see Annachie lying dead on the arena floor. Instead, through the blur of her tears, she saw Annachie pulling his sword from the chest of the second tiger.

She blinked away the tears…then wished she hadn’t. Blood poured from countless wounds on Annachie’s arms and chest, painting his flesh red. There were gashes on his thighs and a cut on his forehead. He staggered and swayed like a sailor on a rolling deck.

And the last two tigers were stalking him.

In the emperor’s box, Quintus sat with tears running down his cheeks. He had always believed Antoninus to be a kind man as well as a good emperor, but this was too cruel to countenance. Antoninus had sent for Quintus, despite his order to stay out of sight, just to have him witness his daughter’s murder. At that moment, Quintus made up his mind to leave Rome forever. He would go back to Caledonia. If the emperor wanted more vengeance on him, he could come and get him himself.

Beside the emperor, Septimius groaned.

“Is the blood getting to you, Septimius?” Antoninus asked.

“No, Sire,” he replied, “I am just watching a lot of my money bleed to death down there.” Not to mention, Septimius thought, one of the best fucks I have ever had.

“Your money should not have dallied with a Vestal, then.”

“Yes, Sire, but the Vestal still lives and my gladiator is dying.”

“True. The little bitch seems to have more lives than a cat!” Antoninus paused, then said thoughtfully, “I am beginning to think this girl is a favorite of the gods, for her to have escaped death so many times. A boar attack, buried alive, and now this.”

Suddenly, Septimius saw his chance. He’d had a grudge against Quintus ever since the man would not let him have his precious daughter for a wife. Not that he necessarily wanted a wife, given his sexual preferences, but being aligned with Quintus’ family would have given him the status that he could never get on his own, considering his occupation…and reputation. He knew that Quintus was now out of favor with the emperor, but he still saw an opportunity for revenge. He glanced at Quintus, then said to Antoninus, “I can take her off your hands and out of your sight, Sire.”

Antoninus turned and studied him. “How?”

“Give me the girl. And let the soldiers or the other gladiators finish off the tigers. If my fighter lives, I will give him his freedom. He will probably be of no use to me after this anyway. But I will keep the girl and you need not see her again. The guards at my villa are very loyal and will make sure she never gets out.” Septimius didn’t add that the guards feared for their lives if they disobeyed even one letter of the commands he gave them.

Antoninus sighed. “All right. I am tired of dealing with this chit at any rate. She is yours. But do not let me see her face again.” He signaled to a soldier below his box. “If any of the gladiators want to help him, they may. And send my physician to tend him.”

“Thank you, Dominus, thank you,” Septimius said. With the emperor’s personal physician attending him, there was a chance the Beast might survive. And how would the emperor know if he freed the man or not? Even if he could not use him as a gladiator, Septimius could always find another use for him. He pictured taking the Beast as the woman he loved watched them. His shaft began to swell at the very thought, and he shifted in his seat.

Before leaving the box, Antoninus stopped beside Quintus. “You might not believe me, but I am sorry it has come to this. You must understand, however, that I had no choice.”

Quintus stood and faced his emperor. “There is always a choice.”

Quintus turned his back and walked away.

Sara could not take anymore. The man she loved was being killed right before her eyes. And she had to do something. She could not stand by and let Annachie die without trying to help him in some way.

She pulled herself up by the bars of the gate and ran back into the arena, waving her arms and shouting to distract the tigers. Maybe if she could give Annachie a brief respite, he would be able to rally and still fight them off. But even as she watched, the third tiger leaped onto him and knocked him to the ground. The last tiger snarled at her as she ran toward it. Then it turned its back and ran away from her.

Sara stared in amazement at the big cat. Surely it could not be afraid of a lone woman with no weapons. But in the next instant, four men whom she recognized as the gladiators behind the gate ran past her. Two went straight for Annachie, stabbed the cat repeatedly with their spears, and threw its body to the ground. The other two men cornered the remaining beast and quickly killed it too.

Sara ran to where Annachie lay. He was barely conscious and bleeding everywhere, it seemed. If the men had not helped, he would be dead now. Yet even as she surveyed his torn flesh, Sara feared the gladiators had been too late. She knew Annachie’s strength, but it would take more than sheer physical strength to survive these wounds.

She took his hand and wiped the bloody hair back from his face. “Annachie? Can-can you hear me?”

He opened his eyes for just a moment. “Sara,” he said, but so softly she could hardly hear him.

“Stay with me, Annachie, please. You will be all right now. Just stay with me.”

“I will,” he said, even as his eyes closed and his head lolled to the side.

The four men positioned themselves around Annachie and lifted him gently. Then they carried him quickly back toward the gate from which they had emerged. Sara ran along beside them, holding his hand, nearly blinded by her tears.

It was not until they were almost at the entrance that she became aware of the sound that rose from the spectators in the arena. She looked up at the seats. The entire crowd was on its feet, chanting, “Beast, Beast, Beast,” and all were pumping their fists. And even as she watched, Antoninus turned his back and left his box.

Chapter Fourteen

The gladiators laid Annachie gently on a raised slab near the cells. Sara began to tear lengths of cloth from her gown, her only thought to staunch the flow of blood from his wounds. One of the gladiators stripped down to his loincloth and followed suit. Together they wrapped the cloths around Annachie’s deepest wounds and tied them snugly. To Sara’s surprise, the soldiers stood by but did not interfere.

They had only been working a few moments when Septimius and a man Sara didn’t recognize entered the room. Behind them stood two guards that Sara had seen in the gladiator compound when she had gone to the conjugal cell with Annachie.

The stranger approached her. “I am Paullus, physician to the emperor Antoninus. He has sent me to tend to this man.”

Sara shook her head, puzzled. “Why? Why would he do that?”

Septimius chuckled. Sara marveled that a sound that should convey humor could sound so evil. “It is an agreement I have with Antoninus. Paullus will try to save the life of my property. If possible.” Septimius added, looking doubtfully at Annachie’s battered body.

“He-he will?” Sara asked. The physician nodded, already examining Annachie’s wounds. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

“He is gravely injured.” Paullus leaned down and pressed his ear to Annachie’s chest. Then he straightened and shook his head. “He has lost too much blood. His heart is failing.”

“No, please, please do something!” But even as she begged, Sara noted the pallor of Annachie’s skin and his shallow breaths. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him close and kissing his cheek. It was already cold. “No, no, oh blessed Venus, no.”

“Dear me,” said Septimius. “Tsk, what a shame. By the way, I forgot to tell you the other part of my bargain with Antoninus.”

Sara tried to ignore him. Annachie was dying in her arms and nothing else mattered to her. She pressed her ear to his chest, but heard no heartbeat.

“He wants you out of his sight…permanently.”

Another chance to die, Sara thought. She knew their son would be cared for and Rachel would tell him about his father and mother. There was no hope she could get back to him. “If you are to kill me,” she said, her face still pressed to Annachie’s chest, “just get it over with. I tire of waiting.”

“Oh, I have no plans to kill you, my dear. In fact, quite the opposite. Antoninus has decreed that you shall live…with me.”

“No!” Sara cried, rising up to look at Septimius. “No. I will never live with you.”

“But you will. And do not even think of trying to kill yourself. I will not allow it.”

“Try to stop me.”

“Rest assured that I will.” He extended his hand to her. “Come along. It is time to leave.”

“No,” Sara said, backing away from him, preparing to run away. Even though she knew it was futile—she was certainly not familiar with these corridors and where they led—she had to try. Just as she turned, she saw Septimius glance back at his guards. They were on her before she could take five steps. They grabbed her by the arms and dragged her back to where Septimius stood. She struggled in their grip, but could not break free. Septimius walked away and the men hauled her after him.

* * * * *

Quintus stood in the shadow of the steps leading down to the holding cells. He had witnessed the entire scene—Annachie’s death, Sara’s attempt to flee, and Septimius’ men dragging her away.

You’re a coward, he said to himself. But he could not have stood to see the look of betrayal on his daughter’s face. Somehow, some day, no matter how long it took, he would make it up to her, for all her pain, all her sorrow at losing the only man she had ever loved. In the meantime, the least he could do was see that Annachie had a proper funeral.

After she and that pig slaver had gone, Quintus stepped forward. The men surrounding Annachie were instantly on their guard, but he raised his hand to put them at ease. “I mean no one harm. I am only here to—”

At that moment, he heard such a moan of pain that it almost brought him to his knees. He rushed forward to see Annachie moving his head from side to side and whispering, “Sara? Sara?”and trying to raise up to look around him.

“Easy, Annachie, lie still. You will open your wounds again. I have always known you to be a strong man, but we all thought you were dead this time.”

“Where is she?” Annachie asked so softly that Quintus had to bend close to his mouth to hear the words.

I cannot tell him Septimius has her. That alone would kill him. “She is safe. You saved her life. You must rest now. You can see her when you have gotten your strength back.” Quintus knew there was still a good chance Annachie wouldn’t survive. He had to give him the hope of seeing Sara again. It could mean the difference between life and death for him. To the soldiers he said, “Have him brought to my house. And gently.”

* * * * *

“He is not progressing as he should.”

The emperor’s physician had made regular visits to Quintus’ house to treat Annachie’s wounds. It had cost Quintus dearly to buy the man’s assurance that he would not tell Antoninus he was helping Quintus. But in the three weeks he had been there, Annachie had shown little improvement. During his brief periods of consciousness, he had always asked for Sara. Quintus kept putting him off, saying only that he would see her soon, but the look in Annachie’s eyes told Quintus he was starting to doubt that promise. Occasionally, Annachie would also mumble a word that sounded like “roost”. Quintus had no idea what was going through the man’s mind. It made no sense to him.

“I really do not understand it. His wounds are not infected and they all appear to be healing, but he remains in this state.” Paullus gestured to Annachie, lying still and wan on the bed, his breathing shallow, his eyes sunken.

“I think I understand it,” Quintus replied. “He has lost the will to live.”

“If that is true, and we cannot find something to restore that will, then I fear he will soon get his wish.”

Quintus escorted the physician to the door, then returned to sit by Annachie’s bedside. He knew why the man had given up. His baby dead and Sara lost to him, he now had nothing left to live for.

As the fourth week began, Quintus made yet another visit to Septimius’ house to beg for his daughter’s release. When his servant called Septimius to the door, Quintus dropped to his knees. “Septimius, I beg you. Let me take Sara home. Anything I have is yours, anything you want.”

“I have the only thing of yours that I want, Quintus,” Septimius told him and laughed in his face.

Quintus had heard rumors of Septimius’ cruelty and sexual proclivities, and even though he was known to prefer men, Quintus feared what the man might be doing to Sara.

“Then at least let me see her. Please.”

“No.”

“What have I ever done to you, Septimius, to make you act toward me this way?”

“You think I did not know how you and your kind laughed at me behind my back, Quintus? How you sneered at me, a slave trader, so beneath your status that I was not worthy of your notice? And certainly not worthy of your daughter, eh? Well, let me tell you, I am rich enough to buy you and sell you twice. And a lot of that money came from that Pict you gave to me. The best investment I ever made,” Septimius said, then giggled like a girl. “And now I have your most prized possession, don’t I? It makes up in a small way for the loss of that other gift from you. Such a shame he had to die. But no matter, it gives me solace to have his beloved in his place. Now get out of here and do not come here again with your silly offers and your pleas.”

At this point there was nothing more Quintus could do. He had lost the goodwill of the emperor and the clout that went along with it. So he returned home, defeated and sad, and even more determined to see that Annachie survived. Then he would try again to reunite his daughter with the man she loved.

As he sat next to Annachie, Quintus went over in his mind all those meetings with Septimius. Something that man said had jogged a memory in Quintus, but he was having trouble putting his finger on it. Slave, riches, status, Pict…Pict! That was it.

Quintus got up and went quickly to Sara’s old room. He threw open her trunk and dug down to the very bottom. There he found a blue silk scarf, stained with blood, covering a hard object. He unwrapped it and held the dagger in his hands.

He had been going through her things one day, after he thought she was dead, and found this. He had only glanced at it before he buried it deep in the trunk again, knowing instinctively that this was the knife Sara had used to cut her wrists when he had sent Annachie away. But now, he studied the dagger more closely.

The grip appeared to be solid silver and was covered in circles and swirls in patterns he had seen many times while in Caledonia. A sapphire as big as a pigeon’s egg graced the pommel and the guard was inset with smaller gems—rubies, pearls and amethysts. Quintus ran his thumb lightly along the edge of the blade, and a thin line of blood appeared instantly. He wondered how many Roman soldiers this dagger had killed.

As he sucked the blood from the slight wound, Quintus thought again of this blade cutting into his daughter’s wrists and shuddered.

He stood and made his way back to Annachie. He lifted the man’s limp hand and placed the knife in it. “Annachie, it is your dagger. You are still a great warrior. You have fought all your life, now you must fight to live. Can you hear me?”

A slight groan was his only answer.

“I make you this promise, Annachie, on my life. Someday you and Sara will be reunited. Live for my daughter. You are the only man she has ever loved. You both risked your lives to be together. Do not give up now.”

But this time there was no response…not even a groan.

The next day, Annachie was no better. Quintus continued to sit by his bed, talking to him, asking him questions, but increasingly despairing of getting an answer.

“Three times,” Quintus said. “Three times you have saved my daughter’s life. And risked your own.” He shook his head at the memories. “If it hadn’t been for you, she would have bled to death, not from her wounds after the boar attack, but from that idiot physician giving her willow bark. Thank the gods you knew what to do.”

Quintus closed his eyes and shivered at the memory of that day…

* * * * *

Quintus’ inspection of the new section of trench was interrupted when he heard his wife screaming, “Homicida, homicida! Murderer, murderer! You have killed her.”

He turned around to see his wife and Thea running towards Annachie. The man carried Sara in his arms, and even from a distance, Quintus could see the blood stains on her gown. The women had caught up with them and now stood in their path, shrieking up into the Pict’s face. Annachie tried to ignore them and continue towards the house, but Claudia would not let him.

Quintus ran towards them and grabbed his wife by the arms, dragging her out of the way. “Sileo, Claudia. Be quiet. If he had tried to kill her, would he bring her back us to us?”

They had reached the house by this time. Annachie paused just inside the door and turned to Quintus, who pointed up the stairs. “This way,” he said, and led Annachie up to Sara’s bedchamber.

Annachie laid her down on the bed. “Aqua tepidus,” he said to Thea who had followed them into the room. “Warm water.”

“And bandages,” Quintus added. “And send for the physician, quickly.”

Then, for the first time, he took a close look at his daughter. She was as white as snow and her breaths were shallow but at least she was still alive. Blood soaked her gown from her armpit to her waist.

Claudia came into the room, took one look at her daughter and began to retch.

“Get out of here, woman, if you cannot help,” Quintus growled.

Claudia fled the room.

“What happened?” Quintus asked Annachie, even though he doubted the man would understand him.

He must have read the question on Quintus’ face. “Cullach,” he said. When Quintus shook his head that he did not understand, Annachie put his index fingers on each side of his nose and snorted.

“Aper,” Quintus said, feeling the blood drain from his face.

“Sir, he killed it with his bare hands,” said the guard who had accompanied Annachie back to the house, and who now stood by the door.

Quintus stared at Annachie, but all of the slave’s attention was focused on Sara.

Thea returned with the water and bandages, and knelt at the head of her bed, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Annachie began to soak the torn remnants of Sara’s gown. After a moment of puzzlement, Quintus realized that this would prevent any wounds that had sealed from bleeding again when the clothes were removed. As he peeled each bit of cloth away, Annachie carefully cleansed the gashes. Some of them were deeper than others and still bled, others only seeped. Quintus was amazed that this savage giant could be so gentle. He knew he should not let this man see his daughter partially unclothed, but because he was helping her, Quintus allowed the liberty.

The physician arrived and demanded hot water to make a tea. Quintus wondered how he was going to get it into Sara, since she was still unconscious.

The physician cast a jaundiced eye at Annachie. “What is this barbarian doing here?”

“He saved her life, Rufus.”

When the hot water was brought to him, the physician took a bundle of twigs from his bag, peeled the bark off, and placed it in the cup, stirring it around until the water took on a pale brown hue. As the tea cooled slightly, he again watched Annachie minister to Sara’s wounds as if he were supervising an apprentice. When Annachie removed the cloth from the deepest wound, Sara began to stir and whimper with pain.

Annachie spoke to her in his own language, and to Quintus’ amazement, his daughter quieted. Annachie pressed a clean cloth to the puncture wound in her left breast.

Rufus approached Sara and started to lift her head to give her the tea, but Annachie grasped his wrist, stopping him. He took the cup from the older man’s hand and tasted it. “Bah,” he said and crossed to the window. He opened the shutter and pitched the liquid out.

“What do you think you are doing?” Rufus spluttered behind the man’s back. “Quintus, I am the physician. Get him out of here.”

“Guards,” Quintus shouted.

Two soldiers entered the room and grabbed Annachie by the arms. They dragged him towards the door, even as Annachie struggled to break their hold. “No!” the Pict shouted. “No, no willow bark. Make Say-ra bleed more.”

“He does not know what he is talking about,” Rufus replied. “It is for the pain.”

Quintus knew Sara had to be in terrible pain. And, after all, Rufus was a trained physician. “Take him away,” he told the guards. Annachie’s cries of protest continued all the way to his stable prison.

Rufus managed to rouse Sara enough to get the tea into her. After a few minutes, her breathing slowed and it was clear that she slept. The tea had obviously worked. Quintus sighed with relief that he had made the correct judgment.

Meanwhile, the physician wrapped her wounds with fresh bandages and packed the deep gash in her breast.

Then they waited.

In less than an hour, Sara’s bandages were again soaked through with blood. Rufus removed them and applied fresh ones.

A half hour later, these too were saturated, and Sara’s face was white as chalk.

Quintus had been in enough battles to recognize the signs of approaching death, and he knew where to check a body for a heartbeat. He placed his fingers on the side of Sara’s throat. “I can barely feel her pulse. What is happening? Why is she still bleeding?”

“Her wounds are deep. It is not unusual for such injuries to bleed for a time.”

“A time? Rufus, it has been over two hours since she was attacked. Even the deepest wounds should have stopped bleeding by now.”

“Be calm. She will be fine.”

Rufus’ voice was meant to be soothing, but nothing could soothe Quintus’ growing panic. “Was he right?” Quintus asked.

“Was who right?”

Rufus had to know whom Quintus was talking about and was merely pretending ignorance. “The Pict. Was he right about the willow bark tea?”

“Are you questioning my judgment? I am a trained physician. He is a barbari—”

“Was he right?” Quintus asked again, accenting each word. “Is that what is making her continue to bleed?”

Rufus hesitated. “Well, I don’t…it has never been proven to do so.”

Without another word, Quintus ran from the room, and to the stable where Annachie was imprisoned. The slave sat with his head in his hands, his legs shackled with strong chain. He looked up when Quintus entered the stable.

“She’s dying,” Quintus gasped. “The bleeding won’t stop. Can you help her?” Too late, he remembered the language barrier between them. Oh, how can I make him understand?

Annachie stood and nodded. “Gather herbs first, to make fuarlit, uh, poultice.”

Quintus knew that Annachie would do nothing to further harm Sara. He nodded. “Do whatever you think is best,” he said. “Guard. Unlock those shackles.”

As Annachie started out the door, the soldier hesitantly blocked his way. “Let him go,” Quintus said. “Go with him, but don’t interfere.”

* * * * *

Quintus came back to the present and looked at the gravely injured man in the bed. There was no response from Annachie to indicate that he heard Quintus speaking to him.

“By rights, you too should have been dead more times than I can count. I will get her back for you and you will be together. I promise you that on my life.”

Still Annachie did not make a sound.

“Listen to me. You cannot give up now. You are a fighter, Annachie. Fight now. Fight for your life and for Sara.”

Annachie’s eyes fluttered for a moment. “Sara?” he whispered, so softly that Quintus had to lean over to hear him.

It was a sign. A very small one, but a sign that the man who loved his daughter was still there in that torn, almost lifeless body.

And so, Quintus continued his bedside vigil.

At times, Annachie tossed his head from side to side and mumbled, as if in a nightmare, but then he would slip back into unconsciousness. His fever came and went, but Paullus assured Quintus that Annachie’s wounds were not infected.

As Quintus was preparing for bed one night, he heard a knock at his front door. Who would be visiting this late?

A servant appeared at the entrance to his bedchamber. “Your pardon, Sire, there is a young man at the door, asking to speak to you.”

“At this hour of the night? Who is it?”

“He gives his name as Micah, Sire.”

“I know no one by that name.”

“He says it is urgent, Sire.”

“All right, I’ll come.”

Quintus made his way to his foyer, and there indeed stood a young man he had never seen before. “What is your business and why at such a late hour?”

“Forgive me, Sire, I was told that a gladiator named Annachie was brought here? Does he still live?”

“He does.” The young man’s sigh of relief was audible. ”But I cannot say for how much longer. He is gravely ill.”

“Please, may I see him?”

“How do you know him? What is your business with him?”

“I know him from Septimius’ compound. I-I was a slave there with him. We heard recently in my town that he saved Sara’s life and that he died. When I came to find out more about what happened, some of the gladiators who saved him told me that he had been brought here. I had to see for myself if he still lived.”

“You know my daughter, too?”

“Yes, sir, I helped rescue her from the burial chamber, then I took them to my family’s home in Castrum Novum to hide them. But the soldiers found Sara and took her back. And well, you know the rest, I am sure.”

“Yes, I am afraid I do.” Quintus’ mind was working. If he was a friend of Annachie’s, perhaps a visit from this lad would spur some response from him.

Micah continued, “And I just want Annachie to know that my sister is taking good care of Drust.”

“Drust? Who is Drust?”

“Why, his son, Sire. Annachie’s and Sara’s son.”

“Now you lie. Sara told Antoninus Pius that she miscarried in the tomb, and my daughter does not lie.”

“Sara would lie to protect her child. Wouldn’t anyone, Sire?”

Quintus nodded. Micah was right, of course. Most people would lie or do anything else necessary to protect their children. His knees suddenly felt a bit weak. I am a grandfather. I have a grandson I have never met.

Suddenly, Quintus remembered the word Annachie had mumbled from time to time. “Annachie has called his name. I thought he was saying ‘roost’. But he was calling for Drust. Come in, I will take you to him.”

* * * * *

“Annachie? It is me, Micah. Can you hear me?”

The voice sounded so far away, as if it came from the other end of a long tunnel. Micah? He knew that name, but how? Annachie felt as if there were cobwebs wrapped around his brain. Snatches of memory came back to him occasionally, but were they true memories or nightmares? Bad, frightful memories—an earthen tomb, a woman tied to a stake, tigers, pain. Above all else, pain.

Yet there were pleasant memories, too—of holding a woman close to him and knowing that he loved her, of a bairn’s tiny fist wrapped around his little finger or in his long hair. Were these real or only wishes his heart made in his dreams?

“Annachie?”

He heard the voice again and struggled to open his eyes. The blurry image of a young man appeared next to him. And suddenly his befuddled mind made the connection. “Micah?”

“Yes, it is I.”

Annachie blinked several times and the image became clearer. “Micah…Drust, how is Drust?”

“He is well. He thrives on Rachel’s milk. And he is smiling. At least, that is what Rachel says; I think it is just gas.” Micah grinned, then said, “He has Sara’s smile.”

Annachie gave a strangled cry and felt hot tears sting his cheeks. “Sara? She is not with you?”

Micah hesitated. Then Quintus spoke from the other side of his bed. “Sara is safe, Annachie. She is not with Micah’s family, but she is safe. When you are well enough, you will see her.”

Had he imagined Quintus’ slight hesitation when he said Annachie could see Sara? And what about the man’s choice of words? Quintus hadn’t said he and Sara would be together, only that he would see her.

Annachie’s thoughts were clearing. He thanked the gods that Rachel and Micah and their family were taking such good care of his son, but it hurt, nonetheless. It should be he and Sara caring for Drust. He thought he remembered Quintus telling him that he had to live, but what did he have to live for? He was still Septimius’ property and if he got his strength back, the slaver would put him in the arena again. If that happened, Annachie knew he would die.

Best do it now and get it over with. “Thank you, Micah. And thank Rachel and Jacob for me.”

After that, Annachie heard no more.

“Annachie, open your eyes,” Quintus said.

“Annachie, can you hear me?” asked Micah.

He responded to neither one of them. “Will he live?” Micah asked.

Quintus shook his head. “I do not know. I have tried my best to give him hope, but he has not responded. Then, when you came and told me his son lives, I thought that alone would restore his will to live. But it seems not.”

Micah was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What if he could see Drust?”

Quintus studied the young man. “You just might have something there, Micah. But the infant will need a wet nurse.”

“Rachel would come back with us.”

Quintus rose from his chair. “I will have a room prepared for you. We leave in the morning.”

* * * * *

Something was different. Annachie could sense it, but he had no idea what it was.

He was lying on his side. That was not unusual, for Quintus’ servants had turned him off and on to bathe him, clean the wounds on his back, and allow air to get to them so they could heal. He wondered every time if the pain he suffered with the turning was worth it.

What was unusual was this weight on his arm. For a moment, he thought it might be Sara—the way she used to lay next to him and he would put his arm around her. But no, it was too small to be Sara. Whatever it was, the slight tug when he moved his head told Annachie that his hair was caught under it.

He finally managed to force his eyes open. By the gods, a bairn! A wee bairn lay in his arms, sleeping peacefully, a lock of Annachie’s hair bunched in his tiny fist.

“Drust? Oh, Drust, my son. Drust.” He managed, just barely, to raise his hand and touch the baby’s soft cheek with the back of one finger. His tears dripped on the infant’s forehead, causing him to start slightly and furrow his tiny brows.

“You have more to live for than you know, Annachie,” Quintus said, appearing at his side. More people stood behind Quintus. With another blink to clear his sight, Annachie recognized Rachel, Jacob, and Micah.

“Thank you, my friends, for keeping him safe and caring for him.” He took a deep breath and said, “Take him away now.”

“Annachie? Why?” Rachel asked.

“It hurts too much to look at him…to see Sara in him. Please. I cannot—” A lump formed in Annachie’s throat, choking him, making further speech impossible.

No one moved to take the infant from him.

“Annachie, listen to me,” Quintus said. “I never told you where Sara is because I feared it would distress you overmuch and make you give up hope.”

Annachie turned his head slightly to look at Sara’s father. “By all the gods, do not tell me they killed her some other way. You told me she was alive.” He tried to raise his head and shoulders off the bed, but was too weak. With a groan of pain, he fell back down again. “Damn you, Quintus, you told me she was alive.”

“And so she is.” Annachie heard Quintus take a deep breath. Then the man said simply, “Septimius has her.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Where is Septimius?” Quintus asked the young man who answered the door. He was new to the household, for Annachie did not recognize him.

“Sleeping, Sire.”

More likely passed out from drink, Annachie thought. Although it was almost midnight, it was still early for the slaver to be abed.

Annachie looked around the room. Just the sight and smell of Septimius’ house was enough to make him feel sick. To the right of the door, down a short hallway, was the room he had always been taken to when Septimius had sent for him. The memory of the restraints, the whippings, and the violation he had suffered at the slaver’s hands hit him like a physical blow, making it difficult for him to breathe. He hugged his son tighter.

“We have come to see my daughter,” Quintus continued.

Annachie watched the servant glance between the older man and himself, then to the babe nestled snugly in Annachie’s muscular arms.

“Forgive me, Sire, I cannot let you in. Septimius forbids her to have—” Suddenly, the young man’s eyes opened wider and his mouth fell open. “You-you’re the Beast,” he said in a voice quivering with fear.

“Aye,” said Annachie, “I am. And if you do not take us to Sara at once, you will learn how I got the name.”

The lad trembled from head to toe. Annachie would not have hurt him, but the servant did not need to know that. “She is in-in the garden, Sire.”

Quintus motioned Annachie toward an opening in the far side of the room. As they walked away, Annachie smiled at the young servant…and was rewarded with a surprised look. “No, I would not have hurt you,” Annachie said, “but I will if you wake Septimius to tell him we are here.”

“No, Sire, I promise I will not do so.”

Annachie nodded and followed Quintus toward the back of the house. The older man had stopped at the opening into the garden. In the far corner, a cloaked figure paced slowly, head bowed. “You go to her first,” Quintus said. “I do not want to intrude on your reunion.”

Annachie nodded and walked into the garden.

Sara found that pacing did not relieve her fear, and she was suddenly so tired she could not stand any longer. She made her way to the bench in the farthest corner of the garden. It was also the darkest, but Sara knew that would not protect her from Septimius.

He had been drinking again, and passed out in his bed as soon as he had come home from the caupona. And lately he had gone to the tavern more and more frequently. Sara knew she would suffer the consequences once Septimius woke up.

She thought back to the conversation she had overheard between Annachie and Micah. Now she knew that men not only did that to other men, they did it to women, too. Septimius made it worse—if it could be any worse—by talking to her about Annachie all the while he violated her. Telling her that Annachie had loved it, which she knew was not true. Recounting how he had licked each scar on Annachie’s back and reached around to grasp his…

She had tried not to cry at being reminded how this man had used Annachie, or to scream with the pain of Septimius’ violation, but by the time he was finished with her, she was always doing both. Thankfully, he would then leave her alone for days or weeks at a time…until he again went to the tavern.

Sara lay down on the bench and curled into a ball. She found this to be her favorite position since that day in the Coliseum. It gave her comfort and made her feel protected, even though she knew she was not. And in her mind, she could pretend that Annachie was behind her, curled around her, holding her in his strong arms. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out reality and hold onto her memory.

But other, more recent, memories kept intruding.

Septimius had violated her the first night she spent in his house. While she cried and screamed in anguish, Septimius had bent her over the table in the triclinium, scattering the dishes and wine goblets in all directions. And he had laughed at her grief. From the corner of her eye, she had seen a knife lying close by her hand. She grabbed it and, with a burst of strength she had not known she had, turned and stabbed Septimius. She had aimed for his black heart, but missed and the knife went deep into his arm. He had her beaten for that and although it hurt terribly, she had the satisfaction of knowing she had at least injured the man.

After that, he kept all sharp objects away from her and made sure she was securely tied when he violated her.

She didn’t want to remember her life before this. Yet, as hard as she tried, Sara could not dispel the memories of Annachie and Drust. Her son was just as dead to her as Annachie was. She had cried for them until she thought she could not possibly have any tears left.

But she always did.

She could see her baby’s face as clearly as if he were lying in her arms. At times, like now, she could even hear Drust’s little cooing noises in her mind. It was bittersweet. How long would it be before she forgot, before his face and his voice faded forever from her mind?

But tonight, she heard him clearly. It was as if her mind added the weeks to his babblings and strengthened his voice. She thought that if she opened her eyes, he would be there beside her, in his basket, on the soft earth beneath her bench. So she did, knowing it was futile.

A vision wavered in her tears. Huh, now I am seeing ghosts. But it was such a wonderful sight that she blinked to try to make it clearer. A tall man with long golden hair stood before her, holding a bundle in his arms. A bundle that was cooing and laughing. Even as she watched, a tiny arm reached out and smacked the big man on his cheek.

Then the vision spoke.

“Sara?”

No, Blessed Venus, no! Do not torture me with their image and their voices. I cannot bear it.

But the voice came again. “Sara, are you all right?”

She blinked again to clear away her tears. She forced herself to a sitting position and faced the figure before her. He appeared solid, for he blocked out the light from one of the torches in the garden. Surely if these figures were ghosts, the light would pass through them, wouldn’t it?

“Sara, it is me, Annachie. Say something.”

At her strangled scream, he came and knelt by the bench. She started to scoot away from him. “No, no, you are dead.”

“No, my love, but I very nearly was.” As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I am not a ghost. And neither is our son.” He held the bundle out for her to see.

She reached out to touch the baby, then she touched Annachie, tentatively, on his arm. “You-you are real.”

“Aye, sweet, we are real.”

She fell to her knees and threw her arms around them both. “Oh, Annachie, Annachie.” Drust whimpered and Sara looked down to see the top of his head wet with her tears. She laughed and pulled away, but only slightly.

Annachie put the baby in her arms. “This time,” he said, “nothing will stop us from leaving this place.”

“I have already made the arrangements.”

Sara looked up to see her father walking toward them. “Forgive me, Annachie,” he said, “but I could not wait any longer to see my daughter.”

Annachie and Sara stood up to face him. “Father?”

He came forward. “Septimius would not let me in. I came here many times to see you, to apologize to you for all that I have done, but he would not allow it. Can you ever forgive me, Sara? If I had let the two of you be together from the beginning, none of this would have ever happened.”

His voice began to break with emotion. Sara had never heard him sound like that before. “I am sorry, my child, so very, very sorry.” The light from the torches reflected in the tears on his cheeks.

“Oh, Father.” Sara stepped forward and embraced him. “Of course I forgive you. I love you.”

Drust protested at yet again being squeezed between two much larger bodies, and they all laughed. Annachie put his arm around Sara’s shoulders and pulled her tight against him.

Quintus said, “There is a ship in the port of Ostia that will take you all the way to Caledonia.”

“Caledonia?” Sara asked. “You have decided to go home?”

Annachie shrugged. “Where else would I go? I think it is the only place we will be safe…and happy.” He looked at Quintus, and grinned. “Besides, the Romans are afraid to go beyond that silly wall they built.” That drew a laugh from Quintus.

“Thank you so much, Father, for helping us.” Sara kissed his cheek.

“There is only one thing I would ask of you both.”

“Anything,” Annachie said. “There is no way I can ever repay you for what you have done for us.”

“I am not asking for any form of payment. I only ask, may I come with you to Caledonia?”

“Truly?” Annachie asked.

“I loved being in your homeland. I have never been as happy as I was there, despite my wife’s carping and almost losing my daughter…the first time. And I would have lost her had it not been for you, Annachie. I would like to live out the rest of my days there.”

Sara looked up at Annachie’s face, not sure what his reaction would be. The whippings, imprisonment in the stable, and being given to Septimius—could Annachie live every day seeing the man responsible for these abuses? She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him smile.

“We would not have it any other way,” Annachie said.

“Oh, yes, Father, please come with us.”

It was Quintus’ turn to breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you both.”

“And Thea. Father, she must join us. She would love having another babe to spoil.” At the crestfallen look that came over her father’s face, Sara said, “Father, what is it? You did not sell her, did you? How could you—”

“No, my child, I did not sell her. I learned the whole story from the other servants—how she had taken you to Letitia and hidden you away, how Letitia was murdered. They told me she fell over dead on the roof of the tomb the day that they buried you. Her heart just gave out in her grief.”

“Oh, Thea, Thea,” Sara cried.

“I am so sorry, nighean,” Annachie said, holding her tighter. “I remember the love between the two of you. But she would want you to be safe, so we had best leave here before Septimius awakens.”

“Too late.”

Before they had taken three steps, a voice from the entrance stopped them. Septimius stood there, framed by the columns on each side of the portal. Behind him stood guards with swords and shields. By the look of them, they were, or had at one time all been, gladiators.

“What a sweet family reunion. So sorry to break it up.” He moved a short way into the garden. “But she is going nowhere. The emperor gave her to me. She is my property now. And now that I think of it, so are you, Beast. I hope you are still able to fight. I am sure the crowds in the arena have missed you. Did you hear them cheering for you? Or were you already knocking at the door to Elysium?”

Annachie took his arm from around Sara. She knew he was going to try to kill Septimius—and she wanted him to—but the slaver had men behind him and Annachie was outnumbered.

“Annachie, no, don’t,” she whispered.

He caressed her back, even as he was stepping away. “It will be all right, sweet. I have a score to settle with him. And I am tired of ‘almost dying’. If I am to die, he is going with me.”

Sara said, “No,” again, but if Annachie heard her, he did not acknowledge it.

He stalked toward Septimius as the tigers had stalked her in the ring. As he rounded the fountain in the middle of the garden, Sara saw him pull something from a leather pouch at his waist. The torchlight reflected off a large blue stone. His dagger! Her father must have found it among her belongings. She looked at Quintus but he was watching Annachie.

She had no doubt Annachie remembered the heft and feel of that knife in his hand, but a dagger was much shorter than a sword. And it was all Annachie had. A chill ran down Sara’s spine and she squeezed Drust so hard, he whimpered again.

As Annachie got closer to him, Septimius started stepping backward. Annachie started up the steps from the garden into the house, his gaze never leaving Septimius’ face. The slaver said to the guards, “Kill him.” When he saw that the men made no move, Septimius said again, “What are you waiting for? Kill him!”

Annachie turned his head and stared at each guard in turn. The men looked at each other. At a nod from one of them, they all dropped their weapons on the marble floor. The man who had nodded approached Annachie and slapped him on the back.

“Beast, we are glad you are alive. It is good to see you again.” Then he bowed to Annachie, turned sideways, and swept his arm toward Septimius. “He is yours, brother.” Following his lead, each of the other men bowed to Annachie or grasped his hand, then turned and walked away. They each smiled or sneered at Septimius as they passed him.

“Wait! Where are you going? You are my guards. You are here to protect me. You are my property.”

The man who had spoken to Annachie said to Septimius, “We were your property. But not after your death.” He glanced at Annachie and continued, “And that should come very soon now.”

Sara heard the front door of the house close behind them.

Annachie advanced farther into the house with Septimius still backing away from him. As he passed the last sword lying on the floor, Septimius picked it up and, holding it awkwardly, pointed it at Annachie. “Do not come any closer. I will have the emperor send his soldiers and they will make short work of you, you will see.”

Sara and her father had followed the two men inside. She heard Annachie say, “Then you had best hurry and call them, for you do not have much longer to live.”

“Stay back. I am warning you.”

Annachie threw his head back and laughed. “You are warning me?” Then he grew serious. “You have only yourself to blame. Who turned me into a gladiator, eh? How much money have I made for you, Septimius? Did my blood and sweat pay for this column?” Annachie slapped the marble column on his right. “Or for that disgusting sculpture?”

In the foyer stood a marble statue of two men. Sara had passed that statue many times, yet only now did she see it for what it really was. A short, slightly heavy man had a larger, muscular man bent over in front of him and it was very clear what was going on. A year ago, she would have thought they were wrestling; now she knew better. Sara felt a wave of nausea when she realized who the two men resembled. The sculptor had been kind to Septimius; he was much fatter than the man in marble.

The likenesses must have dawned on Annachie at the same moment. She heard a growl come from his throat and his face went pale. He bore down more quickly on Septimius, who still held the sword out in front of him. Septimius tried to thrust it at Annachie, but he easily side-stepped and grabbed Septimius by the arm. He raised his knee and brought the slaver’s wrist down on it, hard, and Sara heard the sickening crunch of bone, then the clang of the sword hitting the floor.

Septimius screamed but managed to twist his way out of Annachie’s grasp. He ran toward the garden, holding his injured arm in front of him. Quintus saw him coming and stepped forward, his arms folded across his chest. Septimius stopped, even though Quintus had made no threatening gesture toward him. Sara wondered why until she moved to the side enough to see her father’s face. Then she shuddered at the malice in his expression.

“Do you have this, Annachie?”

Annachie chuckled. “Oh, aye, thank you, Quintus,” he said, then began to stalk Septimius again. The man ran back and forth looking for some place to hide. He finally grabbed hold of a marble column, his back foolishly turned to Annachie. “Please, I beg of you. Take her and go, but let me live, please let me live. I promise not to come after you, I promise. Oh, gods, help me!”

Annachie stopped several feet behind him. “Turn around, Septimius.”

“No, I cannot, I do not want to see. Please, I am sorry for what I did, but please spare me.”

“Turn around, you filthy coward!”

Annachie’s command was so loud, it frightened Drust, who started to cry. Sara held him more closely, rocked him in her arms, and kissed the downy fuzz on his head until he quieted.

“Turn around,” Annachie repeated. “I have never stabbed a man in the back and I will not do so now. Not that you do not deserve it, you pig. Now turn around and face your death like a man.”

Septimius finally turned, keeping contact all the while with the column. Annachie again started toward him. Sara and her father moved to the opposite side of the hallway.

Septimius raised his eyes to Annachie’s face. “I have always loved you.”

Annachie roared, plunged his dagger into Septimius’ neck, and held it there as the man sank to the floor. He stayed on his knees for a long time beside Septimius’ corpse before he finally pulled the knife out and stood. When he turned to them, his expression was so forlorn, it broke Sara’s heart to see it. She ran to him and embraced him.

Quintus came over and put his hand on Annachie’s shoulder. “Come.”

Annachie nodded and they started toward the entrance. As they passed the statue, he stopped and stared at it again. An iron brazier that would have taken two men to lift stood nearby. Annachie picked it up as if it were a twig and brought it down on the carving.

An arm broke off. He swung again and the legs of both men buckled. He struck several more times until marble dust filled the air. He was crying and growling at the same time; sweat and tears poured down his face. His breath came in short gasps.

Sara handed Drust to her father and went to Annachie. She grabbed his arm. “Stop, Annachie, stop.”

With the brazier raised above his head, he paused and looked down at her.

“Stop, my love, it is over now.”

The brazier crashed to the floor when Annachie dropped it. With an anguished cry, he embraced Sara and his sobs made both their bodies shake.

Sara reached up and stroked his hair. “Shh, it is all right now. Everything is all right. It is over.”

He raised his head to look at her and Sara took his face in her hands. “Time to put all this behind us. Our lives begin now. Come, my love, let us go home.”

Epilogue

Returning from the river with her water buckets, Sara saw Annachie chopping wood for their fire…but not alder wood. She understood now why he took a whipping that day long ago, rather than cut down a sacred tree.

She was learning more and more about his gods and his traditions and found them much more sensible than those of the Romans. The gods of Annachie’s people were connected with the earth, with the seasons and the cycle of life. And women were respected and honored as an integral part of the tribe.

At the sound of Drust’s happy shriek, Sara turned and looked at her father’s house, situated to the right of hers and Annachie’s. Quintus and Annachie’s father, Nechtan, entertained their grandson with a little wooden horse that Nechtan had carved. Her father had fashioned wheels for it and attached a string, and Drust was now pulling it around in circles, laughing and yelling, “C’mon, horsey.”

Sara smiled and thought back to their arrival among Annachie’s people. Their voyage to Caledonia had been, thankfully, uneventful which Sara knew was most likely due to the presence of her father. The news of his disgrace had obviously not spread past Rome when they set out.

They were able to procure horses to take them into the rugged mountains where Annachie had lived. As they rode into the tribe’s village, people screamed and scattered or stared at Sara and her father. She could not help but notice that a lot of the young women stared at Annachie…and looked daggers at her.

Suddenly, a large man with graying hair appeared before them. The resemblance to Annachie left no doubt who the man was.

Nechtan was clearly shocked to see Annachie alive. Annachie dismounted and knelt before him. “Father,” he said in his own language, “I beg you to allow me and my family to rejoin the tribe. I do not expect to be chief, as I would have been before, but it will be enough to become a part of my people again.”

Annachie had related their conversation to her later that night, as she was still not fluent in his language.

Nechtan’s lips were set in a grim line. “You have been gone for more than seven years. Why should I take you back? Especially when you bring Romans into our camp.”

Before Annachie could answer, Nechtan’s gaze found Drust. He looked at Annachie, his eyebrow cocked in question.

“Your grandson, Drust,” Annachie said. Sara watched the older man’s chest swell with pride. “And my wife, Sara.”

Nechtan did not look very pleased with that. But then he gestured toward Quintus. “Who is this Roman?”

“He is the Roman general who captured me.”

“And made you a slave, no doubt!” Nechtan roared.

Annachie had became conscious of all the people around them, standing and staring, their mouths agape. “May we discuss this further in private, Father?”

Nechtan hesitated. “Please?” Annachie asked. “Then you may tell me to leave and I will never bother you again.”

His father grudgingly motioned all of them into his house—the largest in the village, the chief’s home. Sara watched Annachie look around and could almost see the memories that crowded his mind.

Nechtan did not appear happy to have Romans in his home, but he gestured for them to take seats. Annachie had told her and Quintus about the rule of hospitality his people lived by—Nechtan might send them away tomorrow, but for one night at least they would have food and shelter.

Annachie began his story. Nechtan’s expression changed with each stage of his son’s journey—from disgust at his slavery, to admiration when told of his status as a gladiator. She knew when Annachie got to the part about her and how he thrice rescued her from death. Nechtan looked at her with surprise. When Annachie told him how Quintus had subsequently saved his life and helped them travel home, Nechtan nodded to her father grudgingly.

Quintus had sensed the bent of the conversation at that point and interjected, “Your son is a very brave man. The bravest I have ever known.”

Blushing at the praise, Annachie translated for his father.

Nechtan thought for a moment, his gaze resting on each of them in turn, but lingering on Drust. Then he stood and motioned for them to follow him. As they emerged into the sunlight, a young man stepped in front of Annachie. He was almost as big and muscular as Annachie, and again the resemblance left no doubt that they were somehow related.

Annachie knelt again, this time before the young man, and bowed his head. “Brother,” he said.

The man looked questioningly at their father.

“Stand, my son,” Nechtan said. After Annachie complied, he addressed his next remarks to his other son and the people of the tribe. “My first son, thought dead, has returned. Although taken in slavery, he has proven his worth many times over and won his freedom. As firstborn, he will take his rightful place as the next chief of this tribe.”

Sara had seen the shocked and almost frightened look Annachie gave his brother. Even though she didn’t know enough of their language to follow the conversation, she could tell that Annachie was worried about his brother’s reaction to Nechtan’s words.

“Talorc,” Annachie began, “I—”

With a yell, Talorc launched himself at Annachie. Will he always have to fight? Sara wondered. But in the next moment she saw that, instead of pummeling each other, Talorc had Annachie in a bear hug and was laughing and pounding him on the back. It took Annachie a moment to return the embrace. When they separated, Annachie asked him, “You do not mind?”

Talorc gave a deep belly laugh. “Of course not, you dimwit. I never wanted to be chief. Too many worries, too much to do. Phhtt, you can have it.”

From that moment on, the three of them had been accepted unquestioningly…even though Sara still caught many of the young women staring at her as if they would like to stab her in the heart.

They had built their own home next to Nechtan’s, but the chief had insisted that Quintus move in with him. They both doted on Drust so much that Sara could hardly get him back from them to feed him and put him to bed.

Annachie’s concern over Sara not adjusting to his way of life also proved unfounded. She was more than content in their small round house. It was cozy and comfortable and she loved being able to look over and see Drust sleeping so peacefully across from them. Even the hard work did not bother her. She was more fit and her muscles more firm than they had ever been in her life.

And Annachie showed his appreciation of her new body almost every night.

That is why she was surprised that he had not yet noticed the softening of her belly.

She looked over at him again. He was bent over, stacking the firewood next to the house. An impishness seized her that she could not resist. She set down her buckets and came up behind him, grasping him around the waist and squeezing.

He roared and, throwing her off, spun around, his eyes wide with shock. In that instance, she knew what she had done. Annachie still had nightmares, though not as many, of his abuse at the hands of Septimius. He had told her how Septimius would come at him from behind and clasp him around his waist.

For one terrible moment, Sara had forgotten.

Her hands flew to her face. “Oh, Annachie, I am sorry. I did not think, I did not mean to…I am so sorry.”

His expression changed to one of pure fiendishness. He began to stalk toward her. “Oh, you will be sorry. I promise you that.”

When he laughed, she laughed too with relief. She took off running, with Annachie close on her heels. With his long legs, it did not take him long to catch her. He swung her up into his arms and spun her in a circle until she was dizzy. “Stop, stop.” She begged and laughed at the same time.

She heard a high-pitched giggle and looked down to see Drust hugging his father’s leg. “Me, me,” he said, “my turn.”

Annachie set her down and lifted Drust, swinging him around in circles as he had done with her. By the time he set his son down, Annachie was staggering with dizziness himself. He swatted Drust on his bottom. “Go back to your grandfathers. You will wear me out, lad.”

Drust giggled again and ran back to Nechtan and Quintus. Annachie looked down at Sara. “What a joy he is.” He kissed her tenderly. “Thank you, nighean.”

Sara slipped her arm around Annachie’s waist. “You’re welcome.” Annachie picked up the water buckets as they began to walk back to the house. Sara took a deep breath and said, “I was wondering…”

“Hmmm?”

“Would you like another?”

The look of love, of joy, on Annachie’s face was answer enough.

About the Author

Kate Poole always thought she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up—a nurse. She did that for a long time. Then she got interested in the law, so she became a nurse-paralegal for a law firm in Baltimore City. She has been doing that for a long time, too.

About eleven years ago, Kate found out she could put words, sentences, paragraphs and pages together to tell a story, and now it’s on to career #3. It took her much longer to complete a novel than it did to get her college degrees!

Kate lives in Maryland with two of the sweetest cats that ever wore fur. And she wants her ashes scattered on the Isle of Skye…with a kilted piper in attendance, of course.

Kate welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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Also by Kate Poole

Anchor and Storm

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