We had been riding for hours.
The marshes stretched behind us like a damp, grey sea. The sun was rising—a pale eye peeking through the clouds—and the horses were slowing, their breaths labored. Flavia was quiet against my back. Too quiet. She was not trembling anymore. That was worse.
Hunger, I told myself. She is just hungry.
We had eaten nothing but stale bread and well-water. Titus had provided the meager meal, and he had brought wine too—a harsh Sabine vintage the soldiers favored. To me, it was bitter. A waste of grapes.
He called a halt where a stream crossed the Appian Way. "We should rest."
Flavia slid from the horse before I could help her. She stumbled to the grassy bank and collapsed.
My heart stuttered. "Flavia?"
She was breathing. Just asleep. Too deeply. Too soon.
I stayed on the mare, watching Titus unsaddle his horse. His movements were quick, precise—a soldier's economy. His hands struck flint, and a small fire sprang to life. The crackling flames threw shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw.
I did not know this man. The boy I had saved was gone.
"You have been in the Legion," I said. Not a question.
He did not look up. "Three years."
"When do you go back?"
"Go back?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it.
"To the army."
He paused. Straightened. Looked at me. The firelight danced in his eyes.
"I will return before the month's end. But I want to marry before I go."
I dismounted and tied the mare to a twisted olive tree. "You are looking for a wife."
"Does that surprise you?"
"No. It pleases me." I meant it. "Who is the lucky girl?"
He was silent for a moment. Then he lay back on the grass, his bare arms stretched out. The morning dew clung to the blades beneath him.
"You still have not answered," I pressed.
"I have not met her yet." His voice was softer now. "But I hope to. She is beautiful, brave, bold—everything I could want in a Roman woman." His gaze shifted to me. "She is clever, too."
"She sounds impressive. I would like to meet her."
"What about you?" He turned his head toward me. "What are your plans?"
"To take care of Flavia. To give her a life of honor."
"That is noble. But I meant for you."
Plans. Do people plan their lives, or does fate weave as it pleases? If fate followed a plan, my father would still be alive.
"I want to be a soldier," I said.
He laughed.
"I can be a soldier."
"With what hands?"
I sat up. Grabbed a fallen branch. Pointed it at his chest.
"These hands. The same hands that saved you from the Forum. The same hands that could slit a man's throat."
His laughter died. He looked at me—really looked.
"You are serious."
"I have never been more serious."
Titus sat up slowly. His hand closed around the branch I held—not to push it away, but to steady it.
"Let me teach you," he said quietly. "How to hold a blade. How to fight. How to survive."
"Why?"
He met my eyes. For a moment, he was the boy I had saved in the Forum—scrawny, lost, but with fire in his gaze.
"Because you saved me once. Let me return the favor."
I did not let go of the branch.
But I did not refuse.
I kicked another stick toward him. "I accept your challenge. Do not cry when I win."
We moved apart. Circled each other in the firelight.
"Now."
I rushed him. Our sticks clashed—wood against wood, sharp cracks echoing in the stillness. I thrust. He parried. He swung. I ducked. We moved across the grass, a whirl of shadows and sparks.
I hooked his leg and sent him sprawling. He got up. I did it again. He got up. Then he returned the favor.
He pinned me to the grass, his stick pressed against my stomach. His face was close enough that I could see the sweat on his brow, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
"Beg, Aurelia," he laughed. "Cry for mercy."
I smiled.
In one quick move, I twisted and pressed the point of my stick against his neck. He hissed. A thin red line bloomed beneath the wood—a single drop of blood tracing a path down his skin.
"Careful, soldier," I said. "This lady is a killer."
He stared at me. The laughter was gone. Something else was there now. Something I did not want to name.
Slowly, he lifted his stick from my stomach. I lifted mine from his neck.
Neither of us moved.
Then he laughed—low and rough.
"You are not going to join the army, Aurelia. You are going to lead it."
I pushed him off me, stood, brushed the grass from my tunic. "I told you. Do not cry when I win."
He was still looking at me. His gaze had changed. It was heavier now. Warmer.
I knew that look. I had seen it in Father's atrium, felt it follow me through the market—softer then. A boy's hopeful gaze.
This was different.
This was hunger. It coiled in my stomach and stole the air from my lungs.
Turn away, I told myself. Call him a fool. Be the dutiful Roman girl Father raised.
I could not.
His face was too close. I could see the lines at the corners of his eyes—marks of the years I had missed. The scar on his chin from a childhood fall. The way the firelight caught in his hair, turning it gold.
His gaze dropped to my lips. Just a flicker.
My heart pounded. My hands trembled. My lips parted, and I did not know when that had happened.
He should move. He should step back. He should break the spell.
He did not.
His hand moved. Slow. The tips of his fingers brushed against my wrist. His thumb traced a circle over my pulse, counting every beat.
Our faces were so close now. I could see the faint roughness of his jaw, the slight part of his lips.
He was going to kiss me.
The thought should have terrified me. It should have made me pull away.
But all I could think was: Is this what Carla felt? Is this why she smiled?
Our lips were a breath apart.
"Aurelia? What is happening?"
Flavia's voice—small, sleepy—cut through the night.
I jerked back. My face burned.
I turned away from Titus. From the blood on his neck. From the kiss that had almost been.
"Nothing," I said. "Go back to sleep."
She obeyed, already drifting off.
I sat with my back to him, hands pressed hard against my thighs to stop their trembling.
My skin burned where he had almost touched. My lips ached.
I pressed cold fingers to my mouth.
I would be no better than Carla if I had let him. Disgusting.
But his lips would have been firm. Our breath would have mingled. He smelled of pine and smoke and clean sweat.
The thought made me hate myself.
I could feel him watching me. His gaze was a weight on my back, on my neck, on the curve of my spine.
Stop looking at me.
I did not move. I did not breathe.
I sat there with Flavia's warmth beside me and Titus's eyes on my back, haunted by a single truth:
I would never know what his kiss tasted like.
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To be continued...