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    Land of Shadow
    Land of Shadow
    Land of Shadow
    Ebook123 pages1 hour

    Land of Shadow

    By Miriam Newman

    ()

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    About this ebook

    In the year 70 A.D., the Roman Emperor Vespasian has entrusted his son Titus with besieging and destroying Jewish rebels at Jerusalem. Among his troops are Marcus, a Roman tribune, and his adopted son Domenicus, found in Britannia and brought to Rome to be Marcus’s successor. Domi knows that he is half Roman and half Celt and his allegiance has been given to Marcus, but he still hears the voice of his Druid ancestors in his bones. When the siege is over and he is given responsibility for the living and the dead, which side will he choose?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDCL Publications
    Release dateSep 14, 2020
    ISBN9781734769036
    Land of Shadow

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      Book preview

      Land of Shadow - Miriam Newman

      LAND OF SHADOW

      BY

      MIRIAM NEWMAN

      DCL Publications LLC

      www.thedarkcastlelords.net

      © 2020 Miriam Newman

      All rights reserved

      First Edition September 2020

      DCL Publications

      1033 Plymouth Dr.

      Grafton, OH 44044

      ISBN 978-1-7347690-3-6

      No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

      Cover design by Lynn Hubbard

      Photo for cover: © Can Stock Photo / Nejron

      PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

      Chapter One

      She had nearly forgotten the pleasure of lying skin against skin with a man she trusted.

      The first light of Roman dawn was breaking across the city. For just those precious few moments, Lucia let herself drowse in peace. Beside her, the man whose name she had not known until the previous day stirred. His hand lay on her hard pillow very near her face, a lean, strong hand callused by what she thought was probably sword play. She laid her face against it, very gently, trying not to wake him, studying him. He was a puzzle.

      It had been a long time since any man had asked to share her bed and offered payment. Usually everything was pre-arranged and payment was made to the taverna keeper. This one had asked her, not her odious employer, and had promised coin for herself, so she had taken him on more or less willingly. She knew nothing about him but his name, Domenicus Acturius, but she suspected he was a legionary returning from service and some of them could be rough with a woman, demanding things even a seasoned prostitute was reluctant to do. He had a tough, battle-hardened look and the slightest accent despite his Roman name. So she thought it likely he came from one of the territories but was currently seeking the pleasures of Rome, of which she was now one. It had gone better than expected, though. Much better.

      He opened his eyes. They were hazel and lined at the corners as if he had spent many hours in the sun. His hair was dark but with some undertones of red, cut short in the military manner, and he was not as dark complexioned as most Romans, yet was darker than a Frank or Celt. He was clean-shaven, his features pleasing—beautiful eyes, a strong straight nose and sensuous mouth, with high, arced cheekbones. She already knew he had an exceptional body—lean yet muscular, smooth-chested, a little scarred with probable sword cuts on his legs, but still one of the better ones she had ever seen, and she had seen many. He had been tender with her, with a deep kindness you usually saw only in the older men if at all, and he could not have been above thirty years.

      You are very beautiful in the morning sun. He spoke softly, also drowsy, and she just smiled. Lucia did not consider herself beautiful. Her belly was rounded and bore fine silver lines because she had had a child. She still had some youth on her side, but she was just a prostitute whose life would age her quickly.

      You don’t belong here, Domenicus told her.

      What do you mean?

      I think you are better than this, he said, glancing around her shabby room. This is no way to live.

      She had to agree with him, but life had afforded her no other opportunities. Daughter of a poor farmer with too many children, she had naively gone to the city with the first man who offered, finding herself alone with a big belly. There was nothing but life in the streets for her after that. She just smiled and touched him lightly, a sincere caress instead of her usual artifice. She ran both hands in a line from his collarbones over the contours of his chest, right down to the lean in-hollowing of his belly. For what he had paid, and the way he had treated her, she would give him extra. Considering what had transpired during the night, it would be a pleasure. To her surprise, he didn’t take it.

      You don’t belong here, he said again. You are not a slave, you can go where you wish. Come with me.

      That made her open her eyes, lifting her head, studying his face. He appeared to be serious.

      I have a seaside villa, he said, pushing her hair back gently. Much better than here. If you have a child, you can bring it.

      She knew he had seen her stretch marks. My child is dead.

      His fingers tightened in her hair. I’m sorry, he said. Very sorry.

      She sighed. It has been more than a year. It was no one’s fault. The pestilence was bad that summer and he was just little. He did not survive it.

      My villa is near Neapolis, on the sea, he said. Much healthier. I am leaving today, returning home. My service is over. Why don’t you come with me?

      And do what?

      Whatever you wish, he replied. I have not been there in several years, but the housekeeper was ancient even then. She could use a younger set of legs to help her.

      It sounded like he had money. A seaside villa was expensive and only the sons of aristocrats were permitted to leave service early, as a rule, unless they had been grievously wounded. He looked sound enough despite his scars.

      This could be a very good thing, Lucia thought—or very bad. On one hand, if it didn’t work out there were always more tavernas. And on the other hand, he was a beautiful creature.

      Perhaps, she said. Are you sure you don’t want more? She ran her hand right down to his groin this time. They always wanted more, especially in the morning. She handled him skillfully. Whoever made you did it well.

      He laughed.

      Whoever that may be, he said.

      Chapter Two

      Brittania, 60 A.D.

      The boy knew Moire was dying. For some time now she had lain on her cot, not eating, barely drinking, complaining of a pain in her side like a beast trying to claw its way out. She was skeletal because she did not eat even when he brought her food, and stank because she could no longer clean herself. It was the same with the animals when they grew old and their time had come—their coats matted, their eyes grew dim. He knew death when he saw it.

      It was a sad thing for animals to die so they could be eaten, but why people should die was a mystery. He had often wondered, but had to be content with the Druids’ explanation that they would be taken up by the Tree of Life, to come again. He needed a Druid.

      He knew that Moire had hoarded coins in a small box beneath her cot against such an eventuality. Bound by honor, he had never filched a single coin even when he would have liked a sweetmeat to relieve his tedious diet. She did feed him and he had some gratitude for that. He was not a slave, but yet was not her family, so his position had always been tenuous. He supposed she hadn’t been obligated to offer him anything, so he had been honest and worked hard for his keep. But finally, this day, she told him to take out her pathetic horde.

      When I am gone, she said, boil the eggs.

      Boil the eggs? he repeatedly dumbly. It was the kind of remark that always infuriated her. They had lived together, widow and foundling, for all of his eleven years since his mother had come into the village, far along in labor and claiming no kin. The women had helped her out of kindness, but understood her predicament when she said the baby she delivered came from rape by a Roman. Such a child could be exposed if

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