ONCE THE SUN set, Strabo regarded the men standing in perfect ranks on the grass cliff top. Only one in every ten were true Romans who had come to this land with him twelve centuries past. Now the legion had become rife with the likes of Norse raiders and peasant farm hands and Nubian slaves. Most could not read or cipher, and they had to be forced to bathe. Dozens of female thralls had died beneath them, for they rutted like animals without the least care for what damage they inflicted.

Still, they were his men, and train them he would.

“Look upon me,” he shouted as he pulled back his hood. “This is the best that you may expect from the highlanders. The worst will leave you as ash on the wind. You will repeat all of the fighting drills tonight and every night hence until you can perform them without mistake. These are your tribune’s orders.”

None of the men made a sound in response to his announcement, but many eyes narrowed and hands knotted.

“Run them again,” Strabo told his centurions before he turned and strode back to the steep shelf of stairs hewn into the cliffside.

Guards came to attention as he passed them on the way to his chamber, and Strabo nodded to each man. For months he had been cultivating the troops’ loyalty, which he now considered his most important weapon. Soon he felt certain the men would follow him into the bowels of the underworld without hesitation.

He had no fear of death. He wore it like a half-mask now, as if every day of his immortality would be a dark Saturnalia, and he a caricature of the two-faced god, Janus.

As soon as Strabo stepped inside his chamber he smelled the sweetness of honey. Adorning his spartan furnishings were vases filled with bunches of the tiny, fragrant white flowers that festooned the cliffs. Beside his hearth sat Bryn Mulligan, her soft white body wrapped in the scantiest of black furs.

“Fair evening, Prefect Strabo.” As she rose she allowed her generous breasts to spill out of the fur. “I am sent to tend to you.”

“Indeed.” She would not have come to him on her own, but at least she did not avert her eyes like the other females. “I have no need of you or your gifts.” He gestured at the flowers. “Take these away.”

Bryn pouted. “I thought to brighten your dreary rooms.” She sidled up to him, her pale flesh gleaming in the firelight. “’Tis naught but a bit of pleasure, milord. How long has it been since you enjoyed a woman?”

“That is not your concern.”

“I ken you dinnae pleasure yourself.” She held up between them the sacred phallus from his private altar to Priapus. “This I found covered in dust.”

The sacrilege would have outraged him, but Strabo knew she’d desecrated his shrine deliberately, as she did everything else.

“When I want a woman, I will take one.” He thrust her away. “Get out or I will summon the guard.”

“That will no’ please the Tribune. He thinks you sullen and petulant for lack of pleasure.” Bryn wandered over to his bed. “I have made sure of that.”

“What?” Strabo peered at her. “Why?”

“To protect you. ’Tis Quintus Seneca and his lack of regard for the legion that sticks in your craw.” She turned and sat down on the edge of his bed. “He’s the reason most of your men are dead, and you maimed.”

For a moment he wondered if the tribune had sent his whore mistress to trap him into a confession. “I should kill you right now.”

“Then you would never learn what I ken,” she chided. “’Tis more than you think, Titus. The tribune grieves for the loss of that stupit cow, Fenella Ivar. Your presence, aye, your very face reminds him that he did naught to protect her, his poor love.”

Fascinated now, Strabo came to stand over her. “What more have you to tell me?”

“Much.” Bryn’s placid eyes glittered. “I despise Quintus Seneca as much as you. Give me what I desire, and I’ll help you end him.”

He could put her to death simply for confessing her hatred of the tribune, and she knew it. “What do you want?”

Bryn lay back on his bed, and parted her naked thighs. “Fack me now, and I’ll tell you.”