Page 22 of Firebird
“Since he took the throne, seven years ago.”
Had it been so long? My pulse quickened at the reality that we’d been living this way for nearly a decade.
She paused in the middle of the square and stared at the giant bronze statue, a tribute to our forefathers, which stood above the crowds. Romulus and Remus suckled from the she-dragon who raised them, who gave them her milk and her blood, and a power as great as the gods. She curled around them as they fed, her wings folded. Romulus was the first red dragon, Remus the first black—the oldest and most powerful houses of Roman nobility.
“Come,” I snapped, weaving a path through the people toward the slaver’s pens.
Everyone jumped out of my way as I expected. If they didn’t recognize who I was, they noted the color of my robe and that was enough.
The red house, the Ignis line, and the black house, the Media Nocte, were the oldest and most prestigious lines of dragon families. By birth, we were naturally most dominant, the most powerful, and the most deadly. It wasn’t a mistake that every emperor was either from the Ignis or the Media Nocte houses.
The slaver Menteo, a weasel of a man with only half his teeth, wore his usual long gray toga—signifying him of the house of Griseo. He shouted from his short pedestal where he could direct his workers to bring out the next human to the auction block. There were many in the pens in the garb of the Celts I’d conquered only yesterday—most of them young, healthy women and children old enough to work.
I gritted my teeth, wondering if they’d killed the old and too young from the Celtic encampment, defying my orders again. Usually, I oversaw the transition from battlefield to Rome, but last night, I…
I, what? Had lost my mind in the moment. No, it hadn’t been me. It was my dragon. He saw her in danger and there was nothing I could’ve done.
Behind Menteo, the auction block was busy and bustling. A young woman, stripped naked, was standing and trembling while the auctioneer was pointing out her assets to the Roman men and women at the foot of the stage who shouted out bids for her.
“Menteo,” I bellowed from outside the gates. He worked from inside the pen, directing his wishes close to the property for sale.
Those beady eyes found me, then he smiled that toothless grin. “Legatus! Legatus!” he cackled. “What a healthy crop of treasure you’ve brought me. There will be plenty of profits for your coffers, I promise. Do you need coin now?”
That slithering sensation crawled down my spine, but I pushed it away.
“No, Menteo. I’m looking for a woman to take off your hands.”
He chuckled again. “Ah, yes. A pretty one to match her.” He pointed at Malina. “A nice pair would do you good. A healthy legatus needs good sport to release his aggression, does he not?”
Malina stiffened next to me, her pulse jumping in her veins beneath my fingertips. Fucking Menteo.
“Not for sport,” I declared in an easy tone. “An older woman.”
Menteo frowned, but then Malina tugged on my tunic. I followed where she pointed. The woman wasn’t as old as I’d thought, her copper-red hair barely graying at the temples. Her dark, watchful eyes were on Malina but she didn’t make any attempt to show that she knew her.
“That one.” I pointed to the woman Malina had shown me. Enid. She was a fair-skinned woman and small-framed. She was also filthywith blood and dirt, like most all of them. She hunched her shoulders forward, bracing her middle with both arms, leaning her weight on one leg.
“Sir?” Menteo stared at the woman I wanted.
I didn’t have to explain myself but I wanted to get the fuck out of this wretched place before my nausea rose even more.
“She’s the mother of the Celtic king,” I lied, pointing to the Wall of Victory. “She has information on other clans I need to find. Get her,” I commanded, deepening my voice.
Menteo’s expression shifted to fear and he instantly snapped orders at one of his men, pointing to the woman Malina was anxiously staring at. They shuffled her through the throng, unshackling her ankles but keeping the ones on her wrists, then pushed her through the iron gate. She hobbled forward.
Instantly, she and Malina clasped hands but made no other sign of affection. I tossed a gold coin over the wall to Menteo, who snatched it out of the air. That was far more than an elderly slave cost, but it was a bribe as well. Menteo knew that I liked my privacy and no hassles. He wouldn’t go blabbing to any other Romans that I’d gotten myself a slave with important information about one of our enemies.
All generals were competitive, and information was the most important treasure of all. To most.
“Thank you, Legatus!” he shouted, winking, and went back to bellowing at his men to get the next one up on the auction block.
“This way,” I called over my shoulder, having released Malina’s arm.
She helped Enid, who was smaller than her, walk and they followed closely. By the time we made it halfway across the square, the praeco—a thick, jowled man—had stepped onto his dais and began shouting his news to the forum.
“The honorable Legatus Julianus Ignis Dakkia has defeated the Celtic hordes and has returned their king’s head for our Wall of Victory. We now await to discover where Caesar will send his brave and strategic nephew next. All hail Legatus Julianus, the Conqueror!”
My blood ran cold. As the cheers of the crowd went up, I refused to look back at Malina. And I thanked the gods the praeco hadn’t seen me.
