Page 22 of Taming the Eagle

Stiff-backed, Caius departed the tablinum, while the slave went to the sideboard, where a ewer of wine and a selection of cups sat.

Marcus’s gaze followed her.

Justin frowned. He’d noted the way his friend eyed Kahina whenever he paid him a visit. The behavior didn’t usually bother him, although this afternoon it got on his nerves.

“Take a seat, Marcus,” he snapped.

Shrugging, the primus pilus lowered himself onto the couch opposite. “So,” he began, taking the cup Kahina passed him and favoring her with another smile. Kahina nodded in response, her mouth lifting at the corners, before she turned and left the room. “What are you going to do with your new slave now?”

“Nothing, for the moment. She can calm down in the pit for a day or two.”

Marcus pulled a face. “And what if she doesn’t?”

“She will.”

In truth, Justin was beginning to sorely regret taking Toutorix’s wife as his slave. But he wouldn’t give up on her—not yet.

Jupiter, she had a temper, although he could hardly blame her. After all, she’d been betrayed by her husband and lost her freedom on the same afternoon.

She was proud, wild. It wasn’t surprising she didn’t want to be his slave.

But all the same, she fascinated him. He’d never met a woman like her.

Taking a sip of plum wine, Justin fell silent. His belly growled then, reminding him that it was a long while since his last meal. He’d eaten some salted bread and dried fruit at dawn, but nothing else. His appetite still hadn’t returned, although his stomach was starting to protest.

The two men drank their wine as the aroma of the stew drifted in from the nearby kitchen. Cena, the main meal of the day, was approaching. The wine warmed Justin’s empty belly, yet he couldn’t relax.

Not after the humiliating scene he’d just walked away from.

His men needed a general they could respect, not one that made a fool of himself.

Caledonia was on a knife-edge these days. Ever since the Ninth had disappeared, men like Toutorix the Wolf bred dissent. The Twentieth legion was five thousand men strong, yet it often felt as if they were trying to hold back the tide.

They couldn’t afford to be lenient with warmongering chieftains—but there was no denying Toutorix had bested him.

And he’d used a woman as his weapon to do so.

VIII. IN THE PIT

CROUCHED IN THE pit, Fenella cursed Aquila and all those who followed him. A few of the soldiers had stopped by during the afternoon to get a look at her. Some jeered, while others grabbed their groins and made crude gestures. But as the gloaming settled, her tormentors had eventually grown bored and let her be.

Above her, the light was fading. Soon this stinking hole would be cloaked in darkness.

Fenella screwed up her face.

Gods, did it reek. They didn’t clear up after those they threw in here. Fenella had stood for a while, until her legs started to ache, before she’d tried to choose a spot that didn’t have a decomposing turd in it. There she crouched, staring up at the darkening sky through the iron grate.

Bitterness filled her mouth as she waited.

If the Eagle thought this would make her submit, he was mistaken.

Her only regret was that she hadn’t been fast enough to elude capture earlier.

The heavy tread of a man’s footfalls approached the hole then. Tensing, Fenella glanced up, expecting to see another sneering face.

Instead, Aquila appeared.

He crouched at the edge of the grate, before pushing two items through the gaps.