Chapter 1
"Lost in the Desert"

AD 167
Arabia Deserta

Pale apricot sand stretched eternally toward the horizon. By afternoon, the heat had accomplished its persistent climb, causing waves to snake off the dunes and calling mirages to taint the men's morale. The horses were restless and unsure of their footing on this ever shifting terrain, and the young general scanned his line of cavalry to be sure the soldiers shared his hardened expression. His helmet rested in front of him to give him reprieve of its metal weight and heat, and the winds lined his sweaty skin with sand even as he squinted to avoid the incessant attack and rays of uninterrupted sun.

"If we do not fight; if we do not conquer; if we do not claim what is ours, we are not Romans!" Cassius called out in his indomitable way. By nature the army was rabid, lethal, effective. Rome gorged itself on countries, lands, and riches, but the hunger remained, a cost and a blood rite. The commander's steady black eyes landed on his general, a promising strategist and brutal enemy, and he granted Maximus a rare nod of recognition.

Maximus turned his face toward the horizon to hide his smile, and he slipped on his helmet, tying the leather strap beneath his chin where a scar had already formed from years as a soldier. In the distance the calls lifted upon the breeze long before the line of forces appeared. Nervous anticipation swept through the company, and Maximus barked for his men to remain steady. The horses sensed the shift and preparation, and his own tan stallion pawed at the sand despite the whispered words from its owner. An eternity stretched between the tribes and the Roman army –or so it seemed. The desert played tricks on his eyes, and the ranks' scarlet and copper regalia wavered in the distant horizon. Their lines were narrow though it was impossible to tell how deep, and soon they evaporated into the waves of heat and rolling dunes. His blue eyes squinted uneasily, and his grip on the leather reigns tightened.

"Had their presence been a trick of the sand?" The men behind him murmured such questions amongst themselves without daring to turn their heads, wary not to betray their position. No fear. No apprehension. Spear your enemy's face for his vanity will outweigh his courage. That was the Roman way, and their foes always covered their faces and ran. Maximus dared to glance at his leader, almost ashamed for allowing his attention to stray when he recognized the single-minded concentration Cassius accomplished.

The battle cries sounded again, far too close, and the lines sprung from the valley in front of them and rushed the Roman troops. The men were alarmed and abruptly terrified despite orders from their generals and commander himself. The first line was ambushed, the second fell back, the third pushed them forward using their own carcasses as shields. Maximus threw his spear, striking a man through his chest and letting his blood stain the sand as the first offering this day. His sword was drawn next, and he raised it overhead in silent command, charging from the right to force the barbarians back. Chests were slashed, heads rolled, and the bodies layered the ground, Roman soldiers among them. Maximus pushed the intruders back, faintly hearing Cassius's demands from behind, but over the clash of swords and howls of death swept away in the desert breeze, Maximus couldn't understand his superior's tone. His cavalry made quick work of the foot soldiers. Their courage was their weakness; their stubbornness, their death.

The sand held more surprises, and a company of cavalry hurtled out of the desert's mouth. The black stallions stampeded toward the Romans bearing their vicious masters too swiftly. Maximus called for his men to resume their lines, but the battle had scattered them. The riders were too swift. He deflected a scimitar and caught the next man in the chest. At the forefront of the lines, he was vulnerable and yet invincible, a veritable Roman charging danger. He had faced the Germanic tribes. These nomads with their battle cries did not frighten him. The cavalry broke through them to meet the lines of soldiers behind, and a new wave of foot soldiers followed, assaulting Maximus all at once with spears brandished. Despite his attempted retreat, his horse threw him onto the sinking grasp of the sand, and he struggled to stand from its consuming trap and face the soldier's blade aimed for his chest. He caught it while on his knees and threw off the weapon as he stumbled to his feet. The ground shifted beneath his weight, turbulent and unreliable as the sea, and the foreigner strained for control. The tribal soldier was indifferent to the terrain and moved with a fluid agility that never seemed to touch the ground. The Roman spun, weapon brandished, swinging powerfully for the nimble foe. Each attack was avoided rather than met, but for his towering brawn, his enemy was slender and nimble. It would only take one hit from the Roman to disable his opponent, but in a few moves he feared the soldier would be too close for him to fight off.

Unexpectedly the soldier's foot caught on a neglected shield from his fallen brethren causing him to stumble, and Maximus struck. His blade sliced open the tan skin beneath his shoulder and might have dismembered the man had he not already been falling backward and landed unceremoniously in the dunes. Maximus swung again for his neck, but he rolled to evade it causing the blade to cut through the ground. Once more he charged for the final attack to steal his enemy's life, but three soldiers materialized to take him. As he disposed of them one by one he lost sight of his initial enemy, and when all three had fallen, the soldier had vanished into the sea of sand.

The nomadic tribes did not have the manpower, voracious hunger, or spirit of the Romans, and the battle was won. By night, the leaders were gathered in surrender, forced rather than complicit, and Cassius was soon enamored by the jewels and gold each man carried to bribe him. The Roman accepted their offerings and took their heads as well. Trajan had annexed these lands long ago, but as the Gauls had proved, tribesman could never truly be tamed or conquered until death. Whatever remained, his soldiers plundered while Cassius dined with his generals in his grandiose tent and celebrated their swift victory. The most precious of his treasures were the slaves used for propaganda, and these he saved for last. His beady eyes shimmered when the wives, sons, and daughters of leaders were collected, and already he was dictating their fates over another cup of wine, sloshing it as he swung the chalice about. A scribe on hand kept account while he rewarded certain loyal generals, saved some for his allies in court at Rome, and still chose others, the most beautiful, for himself.

Among the last gathered was a daughter whose mother Cassius had already claimed, but by his greedy posture, certainly he realized the mistake of his haste. The men leered through their drunken haze, others quiet with indulgent thoughts, but Maximus was the only among them to nearly lose his grip on his cup. In a fitted red gown with sheer overlay, jewelry punctuated by rubies, and slender gold diadem, she reserved the exotic decadence that both entranced and disgusted Romans. Her honey skin was the more alluring, thick onyx mane of hair, and fiery pits of charcoal for eyes. Although her cheeks were flushed a dark rouge from the exertions of attempting to escape her captors, she gathered a regal air, straightening and squaring her shoulders defiantly, to face the Roman commander and his company. She likely didn't know that Roman men preferred their woman subservient, obedient, and invisible for she was unavoidable: a powerful torrent like the smoldering desert sunset that had kissed the dunes stained red from her people. While the men pooled over her allure, Maximus eyed the white bandage on her arm directly under her shoulder and had an odd, sinking sensation of fate's hand. The general participated in the revelry to the capacity his obscure reserve would allow. The pride of his newly awarded position was lost when considering his mistakes and the lives they had cost, and Cassius had not noticed Maximus so solely concentrated. A sneaking smile gathered the corners of Cassius's lips with the cunning expression of a satiated wolf.

"Maximus," he called, and the young man immediately shifted his attention to his superior. "You fought well today... Fearless and determined as any Roman, yet you've not claimed a single treasure from among these gathered. You don't approve of their gold, their weapons," his eyes shimmered dangerously as he paused, "their women?"

The question had all the signs of a trap, but the general assumed a vague disconnect as he decided, "I need nothing more than the glory of fighting at your side and the satisfaction of victory."

Cassius laughed in a booming tone, pleased with such an answer that both stroked his ego and spoke of Maximus' character. "An honorable response, young Meridius, but even soldiers have needs. There is further satisfaction to be had and territory to be conquered." Uncertain how to react, Maximus remained silent until Cassius prodded loudly, "You do not find her attractive?"

His blue eyes returned to her, disturbed almost to meet her fierce gaze like rich mahogany glowing in the fire's light. She turned away as a show of her indifference and unwittingly sealed her fate. Such a flagrant dismissal was an insult to a man accustomed to women falling before him. A descendent of Commander Quintus Sertorius himself with the virile features to suit such a title: strong neck, broad shoulders, thick crown of dark curls, square jaw. He appealed to women and men alike. He was as infuriated as enraptured, his attention drilling into her profile, and he decided, "Yes… for a barbarian conquest."

His gaze remained fixed even after Cassius declared, "You have your reward, Maximus. Send her to his tent!"

The linguistic barrier did little to bar the meaning of the men's intentions, and surely she understood what would become of her. The guard who touched her arm to guide her away proved this omniscient tenacity as a hidden dagger materialized from her robes and plunged deep into his neck. No sooner had his body fallen, twitching and blood spewing, did she turn the blade on herself. She howled curses in her native tongue for all the men gathered with the fluid, chilling effect of a witch summoning magic. She jerked to bury the dagger's edge beneath her ribs, but the other guard caught her arms. She struggled against him as more men joined the fight, and it took three Roman soldiers to properly restrain her. Still screaming even after a gag was placed around her mouth, the guards held her before Cassius, now expecting him to order her death. No woman kills a Roman man. It was a crime analogous to sedition. Perhaps it was the wine, but Cassius appeared abruptly amused by her antics.

"She killed Gaius!" one man cried out in a rage, and others joined him in hurled insults. Cassius moved to silence them with one raised hand, but the wine and blood unleashed their rages. They showered her in abuses.

"Enough!" he growled, and the men obediently hushed. "I have given her to Maximus. Her fate lies in his hands."

All eyes turned to the young general who still had not looked away from her. He understood perfectly the implications of his decision. Execute her, and these powerful men like voracious dogs would gnaw on her bones and spread stories of the desert's wanton temptress and masculine whore. Allow her to live, and they would gnash at his heels for years to come. The fires flickered in her dark eyes as they darted from face to face, impatient for her sentence and hungry even for the end.

"She wishes to die," Maximus reflected in a measured tone, letting the wine swirl about his cup to suggest an ease he did not at all feel. "Life is a better punishment…" The sentence lingered in the air for those men to nip on while he considered the heavy edges of kohl surrounding her eyes. Every inch of her dripped opulence –even the candlelight melting on her honey skin– and yet there was something so stark and barren in her gaze. A woman with everything and nothing to lose. His cup landed loudly on the table to shatter the silence he had cultivated, and he deemed, "She will become a slave in Rome and will pray for death until her eyes close!"

"You cannot allow this abomination!" yet another man protested. The attentions on him turned sour, no doubt assuming Maximus was seduced by greed for this woman exhaled excess in her emotions, dress, and features. None noticed his clemency and his cruelty.

"Silence!" Cassius barked in a voice that no one dared defy. "I have allowed Maximus to choose. Take her to his tent, and show her the mercy of Roman men."

‡ ‡ ‡

It was hours before Maximus returned to his camp suffering a bout of drunken rage. The men did not lay silent about his choice, and he feared guiltily that he had sacrificed his peers' loyalty for a woman who deserved the weight of his hand more than his mercy. He found her in the tent with hands and feet bound by harsh knots. The angry flesh around the restraints suggested she had attempted to escape but only succeeded in tearing her own skin. Dry blood caked her lips, her dress was torn, and diadem missing as her captors had not been gentle with their cargo. His entrance seemingly had no effect on her: she stared at the space in front of her, defiant even now that her fate had been decreed. The blind, stubborn courage turned his gut, and he grabbed her neck roughly, forcing her to look at him and acknowledge who he was. He wanted to watch the fear creep into her eyes, to see her vulnerable and weak, but she sustained his gaze without daring to blink. He released her suddenly, pushing her away so that she fell onto her back and scrambled to her elbows and knees and finally onto her backside once more. She glared at him over her shoulder for such a careless display, but he turned his back to her and began removing his chest plate, shin guards, and wrist fenders. Once in his sweat-lined tunic, he sat on the edge of his cot and unlaced his sandals, feeling her eyes now glued permanently to him. He had known her weakness ever since she stood in Cassius' tent, and he smirked as he recognized it was her pride.

"Were you royalty?" he asked rhetorically since he knew she couldn't understand his civilized tongue. He turned to her, annoyed to receive the same potent look as if she could decipher his words and simply chose not to answer, and he shifted to kneel beside her and remove the white bandage from her arm. She stiffened defensively but did not strike. Perhaps she wanted him to see the stitched skin, the perfectly linear and deep incision. He swallowed down his confirmed suspicions, and wondered, "Are the men so few, so cowardly they let a woman fight among them?"

She answered him sharply with her dark eyes taunting him. He had not known she was a woman, and she dangled that fact before him without needing the language to do so.

"I would have killed you," he growled, eyes flashing in insult, and she mistakenly smiled with the sort of sinuous curve and shimmering gaze that made him wish to tear her limb from limb. He started with her royal vestments, the shoulder shredded beneath his rough grip, and her bound hands met the side of his face. He felt the impact and the hatred behind it but grabbed the ropes to pull her toward him until their mouths crashed together. Her lips split open again, her blood smearing his mouth, and he licked the metallic taste salting his fury as if he were dining on her pain. She broke away from him with a sharp inhale and fought in his grip, but her fervent struggle only bolstered his intent. The thick stench of alcohol on his breath warned her as he found her mouth again and caught her bottom lip between his teeth to test the broken flesh even as she jerked away. She groaned out her pain and fury though her dress unraveled before him. The material sunk between her breasts leaving her half naked for his rough seduction no matter how she battered him with her hands, and he feasted on the supple curve of her neck, sweeping the dense heat of her scent deep into his lungs. Her soft flesh, heady perfume, vicious anger unleashed him as a true descendent of the famed Sertorius: unyielding and destructive. He only abandoned her to draw his tunic over his head, and as he settled over her, pinning her beneath the weight of his muscular build, he saw for the first time the flicker of terror slide across her face. One hand forced the layers of her dress around her waist, the other caught her bound wrists over her head where she was forced to meet his icy blue gaze, drunk and lethal. With her ankles tied, he realized irritably that his hips couldn't slide between her legs, and he straightened once more to reach for his dagger. Immediately, she turned onto her stomach once his attention fell away and dug her elbows and knees into the sand to crawl from him. It was a futile attempt that confirmed her utter impotence and frantic desire to avoid her fate.

Maximus caught her feet and sawed open the rope, freeing her legs to assault him in a bevy of kicks. The renewed fight seemed a better sport, and he ascended her body to unbind her wrists as well. She flipped onto her back to face him and used her nails like claws on his exposed back until the skin peeled away. The pain drove him like a battle wound, and he forced her legs apart, fell over her, and crushed her into the sand. Their skin rubbed raw for the layer of sand covering them both as she continued to writhe beneath him, growling and groaning with her efforts to be free. His hand reached to catch her hip and steady her as if he could manage to take her gently, but in his drunken state his fingers met her inner thighs, smearing the thick moisture over her skin. The sticky substance drew his attention with the vague recognition of its consistency, and his intentions shifted as quickly as his body, falling back to consider through the flickering fire's light what was staining her inner thighs. She fought out of his grip, and this time he let her scramble away to the edge of the tent. Though her face was turned away, he saw the kohl around her eyes now trailing down her moist cheeks. Where he had thought her defiant and invincible, he realized she was terrified like a cornered animal only wishing to survive.

"They did this to you?" he snarled. She undoubtedly thought him angry that someone had touched her before him, stealing glory from a warrior's grip, but he was disgusted by the flash of brutality he recognized in himself. It soured his fury with guilt and contempt and burrowed deep in his gut to rouse a renewed wave of rage. In a moment, he was on his feet with his tunic slipped over his head once more, and he stalked out of his tent and called one of the camp servants to his aid.

A middle-aged woman hurried toward him, and he swiftly commanded, "The woman in my tent… Help her bathe and give her fresh clothes."

Without waiting for her consent, he strode toward Cassius's large tent to settle this quandary. Cassius would be sympathetic to his plight not for the brutality these men used but because they had stolen from Maximus. For all appearances this exotic desert woman had been untouched, and no treasure was more carefully guarded or viciously fought for than what lay between a woman's thighs. Truly Maximus needed the opportunity to release his rage for it left him shuddering and restless, but the brisk walk toward Cassius's camp cooled his impulsive thoughts. It was too late to call on his liege unless it were to warn him of intruders. Rather than looking kindly on this matter, Cassius would no doubt be annoyed and burdened by his presence. All at once, Maximus stilled, staring at Cassius's tent within reach, and his hands curled at his sides. He spun on his heel and retreated back where he came from and settled with a group of lingering soldiers around a fire outside. Their conversations excluded him when it became clear his attentions were distracted. He was left to his own devices, the image of her damp cheeks and stained thighs brewing and turning easily within his mind. No matter how he attempted to consider other matters, the memory remained in the periphery of his gaze to taunt him. When he saw the camp follower exit his tent some time later with her soiled clothes and dirty rags in her arms, he gathered his wits.

Maximus intercepted her before she could return to her quarters for the night, and though he already knew the answer, he asked all the same, "Did they…?" The woman's features harrowed with repulse and apprehension, but after an infinite moment, she stiffly nodded her head. The tempest roared its ugly head only restrained by his clenched fists, and he managed to swallow his anger and press, "Has she eaten?"

"No," the woman murmured softly, "she is asleep."

He brushed past her and slipped into his tent once more to see the fire in the center had been stoked and now burned gently. The heavy canvas captured the heat and blocked the chill of night falling over the desert. The water for her bath had likely not been warm, but there were few comforts afforded to soldiers. Whatever luxury surrounded Cassius while the other men grew more attune to their mortal strengths and limitations. The faint glow soothed the interior even in the wake of his behavior as if smoothing away the furious wrinkles. As the woman had suggested, she was curled in a corner upon a few gathered blankets with one drawn up to her waist. Her black hair was heavy and damp, spread in a fan across the support of her arms, but if the wet tresses bothered her, sleep abated any discomfort. The kohl was cleaned away so that he realized –ruefully– the clarity and silken complexion undeterred by wrinkles. She was young, much younger than he had originally suspected, and he found himself entranced with her simultaneous allure, danger, and youth as he squatted beside her sleeping figure. The stiffness of her limbs betrayed her steady breath, and her awareness of him forced him to recognize that he had no plan and no reason to be so close to her. Whether out of mercy or a lack of anything else to do, he drew the blanket up to her shoulders and stood to slip off his tunic.

As the material slid from his shoulders, he felt the weight of her gaze on his naked back. He was acutely aware of the stacked muscles, hardened from training and punctuated from the meager diet of a soldier during months of campaigning. With his head bowed and tunic discarded, he could almost picture himself through her eyes, knowing well the scar stretching along his side from a wound that had almost claimed his life, the disheveled state of his tight curls, intimidating combination of his strong neck, tall stature, broad shoulders, large hands. When he was young and still foolish enough to glorify death, a general had commented that he had the hands of soldier –that is to say he had the hands of a killer. He focused on them now where they hung tense and bored at his sides and exhaled heavily if only to feel his shoulders fall and chest and back compress for her private show. Were she older, he might have turned to her curious gaze and revealed himself fully to test her audacity, but tonight he was more tactful and slid beneath the blankets of his cot. Still her attention remained until he turned to meet it and saw her eyes closed the same as he had found her. It was less a game between them as a mutual fascination: a woman who fought and killed Romans and a man who forced himself upon her one moment only to protect her the next. Neither was what they should have been, and yet they were exactly how fate had whittled them with some distant purpose in mind.