THE THUD OF approaching hobnail boots in the outer passage distracted Quintus from the illuminated manuscript he was trying without success to decipher. He closed the ancient text and rubbed his tired eyes. He’d forgotten to feed again, but these days even his hunger for blood barely registered.

“Come in,” he called a moment after a knock sounded.

His prefect entered and pulled back his hood as he knelt and saluted. In his right hand he held one of the tiny scrolls used to relay messages from the mainland.

Quintus suspected it wouldn’t contain anything of interest to him, but he still had to act his part. “What is it?”

“A message sent by an ally of your predecessor, Tribune.” Strabo stood and offered the scroll.

Gaius Lucinius had made few friends outside the legion, and even fewer among his own men. Feeling a twinge of curiosity, Quintus took the scroll and unrolled it to read the small, delicate script inside. He read it twice more before he glared at Strabo.

“Has this been verified as genuine?”

“It has,” the prefect said and described an older druid hand-delivering the message to the enthralled mortal keeper of their messenger birds on the mainland.

Quintus eyed the signature on the scroll. “Are you familiar with this druid Daimh Haral?”

Strabo’s upper lip curled. “I know that our former tribune made a pact with the man to aid him in attacking an island settlement. For what purpose, I cannot tell you, but we carried out the raid, and killed every member of the tribe.”

“Except Haral,” Quintus corrected as he stroked his chin.

“Whatever the druid wants, I advise against entering into another pact,” Strabo said. “He is a traitor to his own kind. He would not hesitate to betray the legion.”

“Ah, but the reward he offers is one I find hard to ignore.” Taking pity on the prefect, he offered him the scroll. “See for yourself.”

Strabo’s good eye darted back and forth as he read the message. “He offers the McDonnel laird in exchange for the son of a mortal.” He met Quintus’s gaze. “Why would he want the child?”

“What does it matter to us?” He smiled a little. “If Haral could deliver the laird for such a modest price, I think we might at last find the highlanders’ stronghold. One night, one massive strike by the entire legion, and our enemy will finally pay for all they’ve done to us.”

“The entire legion is at quarter-strength, Tribune.” The prefect crumpled the scroll in his fist. “We barely match the McDonnel’s numbers, and we are easier to kill than they are. We cannot hope to prevail. It would be the end of us.”

A dull anger rose inside Quintus’s chest. “You forever mewl about protecting the men. This is how we do that—forever. When we destroy the clan, we will remove the only hindrance to taking Scotland and all its mortals for our own.”

“Half of the men have never engaged the McDonnels in battle,” Strabo persisted. “There is only so much I can train them to do. They have no real experience.”

The tribune shot to his feet and went toe-to-toe with the other man. “Are you a Roman soldier or a cringing woman?”

Strabo’s scarred mouth worked for a moment before he dropped his gaze. “I am a prefect of the Ninth. I do not cower. I do not run.”

Quintus deliberately put his hand on the unmarked side of Strabo’s face. “When I look at you, I see the endurance. The gods know you have suffered, as do I. I made you prefect to honor what you sacrificed. I have done all I can for you, and you sneer and caper and back step every time we are presented with risk. Where is your courage, Titus? Where is the centurion who served the legion with strength and honor? Did Freyja’s Eye burn it out of you along with half your face?”

Strabo’s mouth peeled back from his teeth, and he went down on his knees to prostrate himself. “I am your man, Tribune. My heart and my sword are yours. Give the word, and I shall see it done.”

Quintus didn’t hear anything but sincerity in his voice and his posture. At the same time, he thought Strabo had said and done exactly what a high-ranking officer whose loyalty was in doubt would do to preserve his own hide.

“This is how it will be: we will take the child, and secure the capture of Lachlan McDonnel,” Quintus told him. “Once we have him, we will use him to get to the rest of the clan, and eliminate them all. Then, Prefect, we will have the world to enthrall.”

Strabo lifted his scarred face, and produced a convincing if grotesque smile. “As you command, Tribune.”

* * *

Outside the tribune’s door Bryn moved from her listening post down the passage, taking care to tread silently until she was out of earshot. The guards she and Strabo had instructed to keep watch inclined their heads as she passed them. She would have felt joyous, had she still been able to feel anything but deep, abiding loathing for Quintus Seneca.

Bryn returned to the training area, and used her mortal thralls to summon her ladies to her private chamber. The tribune had provided her with all the luxuries and comforts that a courtesan might desire, but Bryn didn’t care for the rich silk gowns and costly furnishings. Her bed slave, an eager young sailor she kept naked and chained by the hearth, roused from his sleep and immediately grew erect.

“My goddess.” He crawled over, his swelling penis bobbing as he tried to kiss her bare feet. “Permit me see to yer pleasure, I beg ye.”

At first his perpetual adoration and desire had amused Bryn, who had been well-used but never loved. Now it simply drove home yet another reminder of what Quintus Seneca had taken from her along with her mortal life.

“I might have found a widower wanting a companion,” she told her thrall as she idly wound a piece of her hair around her finger. “A rich old man with no family, who would have appreciated my skills, and left me his fortune. There were some who came through my village.”

The sailor nodded eagerly. “Aye, Mistress, for ye are a beauty rare. None could resist ye.”

She glanced down at him as he spread kisses all over her foot. “Dinnae make me kill you tonight.”

Her ladies arrived a short time later, and she sent the thrall out to be fed. She checked that the hallway was empty, then closed and bolted the door before turning to the other women.

“Quintus Seneca and Titus Strabo are squabbling over a druid who offers the McDonnel laird to them,” Bryn said. “If they strike a bargain, they’ll have to leave Staffa to make the exchange.”

Gerda and Jean, both of whom had been badly used as thralls, exchanged a look.

“It could be our chance,” Gerda said, her dark eyes sparkling.

“We must take it,” Jean agreed, as the other ladies nodded.

“Aye,” Bryn said. “’Twould seem our time soon arrives, but first we must make ready. Begin selecting the newly-arrived and enthrall them. Have them bring enough food and water to keep them alive for a moon.”

Gerda frowned. “Won’t they be missed by the procurer, Mistress?”

“I’ve seen to it that Strabo will deal with him,” Bryn said and looked around the room at the determined faces of her ladies. “Remember to be generous with the men. We cannae have them doubting for a moment our devotion to their pricks.”

“At least I dinnae have to fack Strabo,” Jean said, grimacing. “I cannae envy you that, Mistress.”

“Aye, for he looks like a leper, and swives like a bull,” Bryn said and smiled at her. “But his true hunger is for the tribune’s heart, buried around his dagger.”

“Do you think he’ll kill Seneca for us, Mistress?” one of the younger whores asked.

“If he has the moment to strike, perhaps,” Bryn said. “But we dinnae need any man to do our work or bring us pleasure, do we, my sisters?”