The Lost Centurion (The Immortals Book 1) (5 page)

He waived his hand in the air, his eyes icily staring into hers. “So you were a glorified
hetaera
. Same difference.”

Diana felt the sting of his words as if he had slapped her and gasped. She barely remembered what
hetaera
meant from the ancient history class she had taken in high school before dropping out, but his dismissive tone would have been enough to hurt her. “Just because you think you’re better than the rest of humanity—”

He cut her tirade by erupting in a mirthless laugh. When he finally sobered up, he rubbed his hands along his face, from one side to the other. “I lost my humanity long ago, little thing.”

“I’ve had enough of this—” She looked around, encompassing the room, but meaning to express her disliking of the whole situation. “You don’t know me and yet you’re fast in passing judgment upon me. I didn’t ask for a lot of things in life, and among them, I didn’t ask to be turned into a vampire.”

He straightened on the couch. “But you knew he was a vampire.”

Another shiver went through her spine. “He told me, but I didn’t believe him.” Looking back, she had refused to see how different he was compared to her other clients. “I thought he was eccentric. He had all those rules—”

“Why did you stick around him, if you thought he was strange?”

“I owed him.” Diana didn’t want to remember that night, but she felt compelled to defend Virgil’s memory.

Marcus had gone still. “Owed him how?”

“One night, I was attacked and he saved my life. Then
he
stuck around and helped me heal...” Tears filled her eyes at the memory of how Virgil had nursed her back to health. After the vicious attack she had suffered at the hands of some thugs, he had brought her to his house and she had been living with him for the last six months. At the beginning, despite her weariness of him, she had been too weak to leave, then she had grown fond of him. “He could
heal
me because he was a vampire?”

“I’m positive about that. Don’t you remember him giving you his blood?”

Diana shook her head, several memories surfacing to give her the big picture she hadn’t wanted to see. “After I refused to believe his farfetched story, he called a doctor who prescribed me IVs. I remember I also had some transfusions…”

Marcus tapped his booted heels on the floor. “The doctor was probably another vampire, and the transfusions were of Virgil’s blood. He must have cared for you a great deal to go to such lengths just to make you feel comfortable.”

“He did more than that.” The sickness had hit her without warning. One day she was fine, the next she couldn’t raise her head from the pillow. The doctor she had contacted—an oncologist, a good client of hers—had explained that wasn’t true, that the cancer had slowly spread through her body and that she had only felt it when it was too late to do anything. Virgil hadn’t been able to accompany her to the oncologist’s office for an early-morning appointment—she now realized why—and she had listened to her death sentence alone. The pity on the doctor’s face had been too much to bear and she had spent the next three days after the diagnosis drinking her pain away. “Virgil was the only one by my side when I got sick—”

“He never told you about his decision to turn you?” Marcus left the couch to walk back and forth before the bed in nervous strides.

Diana found it unnerving, but didn’t voice her complaint. “He said something about a cure he could provide, but as I told you, I never took him seriously.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “He told me I couldn’t have kids anymore and I should’ve changed my diet, among other things.” At the time, she had thought him cute in his weirdness. She knew she was terminal, she could feel it, but at the end of her life, she found it refreshing to have someone care for her once again. Then what she had just said hit home. “I’m barren.” The thought saddened her more than she would have ever imagined.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Marcus stopped his pacing and stood right before her. “A cure for what?”

She saw the moment his eyes flickered to her head, then to her bony hands.

He stepped closer to her side of the bed. “You were dying.”

She nodded.

“He wanted to save you.”

“It seems so.”

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, his right hand worrying the tangle of sheets. “I admit I didn’t think your race capable of such sacrifice.”

In one single moment of clarity, all Virgil had said and done came back to her. “He knew he would pay for his decision.” She was overwhelmed by the realization.

“Yes. He knew, yet he decided to fight the nest’s orders to turn you.” His fingers traveled toward her and rested at her side, not touching the bundle of quilt enveloping her, just resting close. “You must’ve been quite special to him.” He whispered his last sentence and avoided her eyes to look at his side.

The warmth from his near touch reached her, and she was confused by her reaction, wanting to free one hand and pull him inside the quilt with her. “He was kind to me.”

Marcus leaned toward her, and she felt butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach, but he didn’t close the gap. Instead, he moved away at the last moment, leaving her gasping under her breath. “How come you know so much about vampires?”

“I am not one of them, if that’s what you’re asking. And you should probably rest. Turning is a proving experience from what I’ve heard.” Before she could say anything, he walked to the window, closed the venetian blinds, pulled over the heavy curtains, and exited the room now left in oppressive darkness.

Marcus was tired. He had spent a long day in the fields training the recruits. Another war for the advancement of the empire was in the air, but he hadn’t felt thrilled at the idea of fighting in a long time. He didn’t enjoy spending week after week shaping up soldiers who could barely hold a sword. None of the young men he had been working with had what it took to be leaders. Sometimes, he joked with Alexander that they were the last centurions left in Rome, at which his friend would answer he was being too intellectual and only needed diversion and soon. What had started with a drink and a long night spent talking about the various problems plaguing his beloved city had soon morphed into several drinks and no talking at all. Then a different sort of entertaining had followed the heavy drinking. For a centurion, especially if young and healthy-looking, there was always entertainment to be had. Marcus had been of simple tastes and willing women had sufficed him.

Had he taken the time to analyze why he was drinking himself blind night after night, passing from one nameless woman to the next—although all of them resembled his wife somehow—he would have seen that Rome’s corruption and loss of greatness had nothing to do with it. He couldn’t bear the idea of returning to a house that wasn’t a home anymore, but a place where he was utterly alone surrounded by servants and slaves. Aurelia hadn’t left him yet, but he knew it was a matter of time. Her father, now praetor, was spending the winter in Sicilia. As soon Severus was back home, he would easily see through the wall of lies he and Aurelia had fabricated to keep the failing of their marriage hidden to their patrician friends. Severus would blame Marcus and he would be right.

He reached for the small pathway bordered with olive and orange trees. He had planted the trees personally, daydreaming of when he would teach a son of his how to drive the small cart his father had built for him when he was a boy. The olive’s foliage was suffering from a parasite and he made a mental note to order the gardener to cover the oranges if the temperature continued dropping. Winters in Rome never reached the frigid temperature he had experienced in his first campaign in the barbaric lands laying north of Rome beyond the Alps. Yet they were only at the beginning of month Januarius, and it had already hailed three times and halved the next fruit harvest if his gardener’s prediction was right.

He entered his house to the silence to which he had grown accustomed. Once, Aurelia had taken great pride in never letting the ancestors’ fire extinguish in her home. Back then, he couldn’t wait to leave the work behind to run back home to his wife who welcomed him with the softest of hugs and a smile that robbed him of his senses. Outside, he was Marcus Sulpicius Aurelianus, the centurion every soldier feared and respected. At home, he was putty in his wife’s hands. One tear from Aurelia had the power to annihilate him.

When had she started loving him less? One day, she had shied away from his touch and excused herself because she was too tired. He had known from the dead look in her eyes when she told him the first lie of their marriage that she wasn’t his anymore. He had spent five long months trying to win her love back, but she grew more and more distant until she asked him to sleep in another room. The next week, he left Rome for a campaign in Africa that lasted a whole year. During those twelve months, he wrote his wife every week. She never wrote back. He started sleeping with other women.

After having dismissed his servants, Marcus tiptoed through the house and saw that Aurelia hadn’t retired to her room yet. He reeked of woman and cheap, watered wine, but at the sight of her, he forgot he had meant to take a bath. She was in the dining room, her back to him, lying as if asleep on the triclinium. He could see her resting on the oversized couch he had ordered so the two of them could sit comfortably at meals. The first months of their marriage, he had come home for the daily repast to share the small meal with her. When it had been the last time they had dined together? He couldn’t remember. He missed her. With every woman he bedded, his longing for her kisses and caresses was renewed.

****

Diana woke to a bloodcurdling scream and was out of the bedroom and running in the hallway before she could realize what she was doing. She found Marcus in the room past the bathroom. Naked from the waist up, he sat on a bed that seemed too small to contain his frame.

“Are you okay?” She was at his side, but he wasn’t there, his eyes frozen on a point behind Diana’s shoulders. “Marcus?”

He swung his long legs to the side of the bed, rose in one single movement, and sprinted toward the door, knocking her over as if she weren’t there. She yelped, her naked back now on the cold marble tiled floor. “Wake up!”

At her scream, he blinked once and finally noticed her. “What are you doing out of bed?” He took her by her wrist and pulled her up with him, his eyes raking her up and down. “And why are you wearing nothing?”

He made it sound as if she had done it on purpose to be naked before him. “I was sleeping. I woke up when you screamed.” He was still holding her by her wrist. “You’re hurting me.”

He immediately let her hand go, then his eyes went to her wrist and grimaced at the sight of a forming bruise. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to.” He let a breath out and crouched low.

She looked down at him. “Were you having a nightmare?”

He nodded, his head between his knees. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing.” She reached her hand toward him and touched him softly on the shoulder.

He looked up. “I don’t hurt women.”

She attempted a smile, but couldn’t fathom why she was trying to make him feel better.

He stood, passed her, and was out of the room.

She followed him back to the bedroom where she had slept and saw him rummaging in one of the nightstand’s drawers from where he produced a small jar.

“Sit.”

Despite the command, his tone was gentle and she complied. He sat next to her, his jeans-clad thigh a hair apart from her leg. Once again, Diana felt the warmth emanating from him even through the thick fabric of his pants. With a shaking hand, he opened the jar, a delicate purple blown glass flask with an intricately decorated lid, dipped one finger inside, then looked at her, raising the jar to her eyes to see the content. “It’s just salve.”

She nodded, too overwhelmed by his proximity to talk.

“It’s a family recipe passed down through generations.” He lowered his oiled finger over Diana’s wrist and methodically smeared the white poultice over her bruise.

She yelped, but not in pain.

“I’m sorry. It’ll take only a moment for the salve to work its magic. You’ll see.” He stroked her wrist in small circular motions.

She felt her skin redden in response to his touch and was glad the room was still in the dark because she blushed from the top of her head to her toes.

He didn’t seem to notice, but kept caressing her, applying the lightest of pressure to the inside of her wrist. Then his caresses grew in larger circles. “My father taught me how to prepare this salve when I was six years old.”

“So young.” She heard herself murmur.

“Different times…” He dipped his finger again in the jar and moved his hand over her left shoulder. “You’re bruised there too.” He pointed at a dark spot on her skin.

She automatically angled her body to give him better access to the part. “You were six, and…?”

“The occasion was my first fall from a horse. I had escaped the afternoon tedium and my tutor, hoping I could ride my father’s horse without him being the wiser. I thought I was so clever. I had told my Greek tutor my mother had asked for me, while I had invented a slightly different lie for my mother. I took Aster, my father’s black mare, from the stable, invented yet another lie for the stable master, and rode away with him. I felt invincible. Aster was as happy as I was galloping through the fields.” He paused to take another dollop of salve to spread on the other shoulder.

His touch was soothing and she didn’t want him to stop. “What happened then?”

“I fell of course. Aster ran away scared. I had to walk the whole way back to the house, hopping on one leg, my knees badly bruised. I was covered in cuts.” He laughed at the last bit.

Diana couldn’t help but raise her hand and reach for the scar on his face. “Did you cut your face then?”

He flinched, but didn’t move her hand away.

“No, it wasn’t then.” His eyes lost focus for a moment, then he was back. “When I finally entered the atrium of my house, everybody was waiting for me. My tutor, my mother, and my father. Nobody commented on my status. My father told me to follow him to the kitchen. I feared a whipping would be next, but he simply said to me, ‘You see, son, stupid decisions will only cause you pain.’ Then he proceeded to teach me how to prepare the ointment to heal my physical wounds.” He stopped applying the salve, gave her a good look, seemed to think about continuing the ministration, then wiped his finger on his jeans, and closed the jar.