Table Of ContentFated
by
Carolyn McCray
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Early Reviews
“From Carolyn McCray comes a historical romance that will leave you hoping
that for once, fate will be kind. You will be gripped from the first page to the
last, caught in a love that spans eons and an ancient political intrigue whose
consequence still reverberates today. This is truly a masterpiece that stays with
you long after you’ve turned the last page.”
Emma Gilbertson
Reviewer
This Writer Bites Back
“If you love historical romances with a fantastic paranormal twist, Fated is for
you. Set in ancient Rome, Fated is the perfect blend of suspenseful and sultry.
Truly a great read. You will never look at Brutus—& Caesar’s assassination—
the same way.”
Amber Scott
@amberscottbooks
Best-selling Author of Irish Moon
“I was enthralled by this book—enthralled by the time period, the romance,
the characters, and the historical events unfolding… Kudos, Ms. McCray!”
Tessa Blue
@TessaBlue
Author of Children of the Lost Moon
“Fated is full of suspense. It does not let go… As usual, Ms. McCray’s style
and writing are brilliant.”
M. Koleva
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Table of Contents
More Books by Carolyn
Contact Information
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Copyright Information
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PROLOGUE
The air was heavy with un-spilt rain as the warrior surveyed the battlefield, a
deep frown spreading. It seemed that the gods themselves laid down a thick
cover of clouds to block the horrendous sight below. The smell of death hung in
the still air. Hidden within the thick forest just south of the conflict, the
commander’s concern grew. This was to be a day of Spanish victory. The
moment when Spain finally threw off the yoke of Rome’s supremacy.
Gripping the pommel of the saddle, the commander realized that Caesar was
a more potent enemy than any had thought before. The Roman’s burgundy-
crested centurions pushed the line farther and farther up the Spanish hill. As the
morning sun struggled through the dark clouds, the legionnaires’ bronze armor
sparkled as if encrusted with exotic gems. Despite fighting uphill on soil very far
from their home, it was as if Julius’ legions were kissed by the gods.
The Romans had been on a forced march for over a week, yet these glittering
soldiers were making quick work of the Spanish countrymen defending their
land.
“Torvus!” a shout rose from the north.
The warrior acknowledged the summons, but took little pride in the name.
Latin for “reprimand,” the name Torvus was a questionable honor given to this
hard-edged foreigner. Like the Romans, Torvus was born far from these lands.
Instead of originating from the south like the legionnaires, the commander came
from the North, a fact that Torvus’ red hair could not hide—not amongst the sea
of raven hair that graced the Spanish.
As much as the warrior’s pale skin stirred distrust in these peasants, they
knew the Northerner’s blade would be needed against the Romans. Torvus had
spent weeks preparing the troops—trying to instill the grit and fortitude they
would need this day. Despite the warrior’s stern words and harsh training, the
Spanish still faltered back another few steps. Torvus groaned. No amount of
discipline would save this day. The Romans could smell victory with every inch
they crept forward. Their swords arced higher. The archers grew bolder with
each volley.
Worse, these peasants were trapped in a war not of their own making.
Pompey— Spain’s former governor—might have been of Roman descent, with
his flowing white robes and rigid nose, but he had treated these peasants fairly.
After Caesar executed Pompey for treason, this region of Hispalis had resisted
Julius. The balding general had ruled Spain years ago, and these peasants wanted
nothing more to do with Rome’s excesses. They sought freedom and
independence.
Torvus strove for something very different. No, this Northerner fought
because there were Romans across the battlefield. Any day to kill Romans was a
good day.
Orphaned so many years ago by the Empire’s attempt to subjugate Scotland,
Torvus needed no other reason to take up arms against the Romans than that they
breathed. Bile stung the back of the commander’s throat at the mere glimpse of
the gold banner of Rome. Especially this one named Caesar, who thought
himself the next Alexander the Great.
A runner, no more than a boy, panted as he skidded to a halt beside Torvus’
towering stallion. “The regent has ordered that you engage battle.”
Torvus’ frown deepened. The warrior’s battalion had been held in reserve to
sweep in from the east and trap the Romans between the main battlefield and
their route of retreat.
It was too soon to commit this reserve. Once unleashed, this strategy could
not be retrieved. Did the Spaniard not know of Caesar’s prowess? The Roman
had conquered far greater hosts then this meager Spanish assembly. And these
troops were no more than peasants. The regent had even freed slaves just to
swell their ranks for this battle.
Julius did not win with his strong fighting arm or his skill at the bow. It was
common knowledge that even if Diana were standing over his shoulder, Caesar’s
arrow could not strike a mark.
No, it was the general’s mind that separated him from his contemporaries.
Torvus had studied him. This Caesar thought like none other. He took nothing
for granted. The Roman assumed the battle would turn foul and always had a
contingency.
Despite his arrogant manner, Julius was most humble in his strategy. Many
of the Roman’s enemies, both foreign and native, had thought the moment ripe
to strike, only to find Caesar three strides to the left, with his own sword raised
for the mortal blow.
Torvus knew that to underestimate the Roman was to lose before the battle
even began. That is why the warrior had insisted on keeping a large number of
troops in reserve. They must have a contingency of their own. Torvus eyed the
west. Caesar was equally well prepared. The legendary general had held back a
number of his African horsemen. Those cavalry could easily be sent to reinforce
their rear.
But it was not Torvus’ place to question the regent. The warrior had sworn
an oath of obedience, and the Northerner was not one to break a vow. Yet in the
center of the warrior’s marrow, Torvus knew to hold back. This battle could drag
on for hours. Let the enemy tire. The Romans had marched a hard seven days
from Corduba. The countryside villagers had given the Romans grief by stealing
their supplies, stampeding their horses, and generally making them wish they
had never entered Hispalis. The regent needed Caesar to feel safe in victory so
that the Roman would commit those foot cavalry to the front line.
Torvus knew that the Spanish troops were not experienced, but they were
fresh, and their homes lay not a few hectares away—a village that would be
burned to nothing if they did not win this battle. No one fought more desperately
than those whose families’ fates rested in his hands. But even as the warrior
watched, the front line stumbled back another step, losing precious inches. If
they fell back another few yards, the Romans would reach the plateau, and the
Spanish would lose their slim advantage.
If only Torvus had been graced with more time. These men were unseasoned
and had not fought in dozens of wars, as the Northerner had. How could they
know that a battle looking as lost as this one could turn upon the tip of a sword?
Once, Torvus had seen a single stable boy’s shout of encouragement turn the tide
of battle outside Vichy. The warrior’s troops had rallied and swarmed the
legionnaires within minutes. But these peasants were ignorant. They worried for
the rough pitchforks they held in their hands. They feared the bronze-tipped
spears that the Romans brandished. These simple folk did not understand what
spelled victory. It mattered far more what was inside one’s heart than the
weapon one gripped in the hand.
Perhaps the regent was correct. Thunder rumbled in the distance, heralding
the gods’ impatience. If they waited much longer the center of the Spanish line
would break, and all would be lost. Torvus nodded to the boy and spurred the
stallion forward. This battle would be decided before Apollo reached his zenith.
Torvus rode in front of the assembled troops and boldly stared into each
man’s eyes. If they were to die today, it would be as free men. Each could hear
the strangled cries from the battlefield. Each knew death lay but a few yards
away. Yet each answered the warrior’s gaze with pride and commitment.
All except Torvus’ lieutenant, Karret. This boy thought that he should be
riding upon the stallion, leading his countrymen into battle. The warrior frowned
at the young man’s arrogance. The boy had yet to truly fight in any campaign.
Karret was the son of the smithy who forged the easily broken swords they
carried. Without that stature, the boy never would have held a rank such as
lieutenant.
Not rising to Karret’s bait, Torvus rode past the youth and turned back to the
troops. There was no long inspirational speech, or even a wailing cry. They dare
not give away their position. It was crucial that the attack be a surprise. Torvus’
hand rose, feeling the rough texture of the leather gauntlet for a single heartbeat,
then the fist was clasped.
The Northerner did not look back as the stallion surged onto the battlefield
proper. The warrior knew that the troops charged close behind.
Pure rage coursed through Torvus’ blood, blunting the bone-jarring impact
when the warrior’s stallion hit the enemy’s rear. The Romans had been
preoccupied by the clash of armor at the front line and were mowed down in the
wake of Torvus’ charge. The stallion spun and kicked as the warrior created
confusion to allow the Spanish troops to descend the slope.
Now that the Romans were engaged on two sides, the favor momentarily
turned to the Spanish. Caesar’s legion had no choice but to shuffle to meet this
new force, which broke the forward thrust up the hill. This was the Spaniards’
keening blow. They must take advantage of this breach before the elite Romans
regrouped. With a resounding shout, Torvus spurred the stallion forward, into
the thick of the Romans.
Some stood their ground, but many scattered under the horse’s flailing
hooves. The peasants needed to see that these Romans were not gods—not even
minor deities. Underneath all of that ornate armor and bright feathers, the
legionnaires were nothing more than men. And men could die.
Despite the warrior’s best efforts, these Romans were well seasoned and
reorganized readily. And as the warrior had feared, the dark horsemen were
summoned to the rear. While battling three soldiers at once, Torvus begged the
gods a boon. Without something to quicken these green Spanish troops, they
would lose their momentum.
In answer, an arrow flew through the sky and struck Torvus in the left arm.
Biting back a cry, the warrior’s arm went limp, dropping the broadsword onto
the blood-soaked ground. It was as if the sun tired of its journey across the sky.
Time crawled as if it were a newborn. It seemed that all eyes were upon the
warrior. Not just those of the reinforcement troops stared at the injury, but the
battle-weary Spaniards from the front line sought the warrior’s pained
expression. The entire battlefield held its breath.
This was the gods’ boon. Torvus had fought many a war, and knew this to be
one of those most precious moments when a single person could turn the tide of
battle.
Without care to the damage done, Torvus took the shaft of the arrow and in
full view of both Spaniard and Roman, snapped it off at the skin. The motion
sent daggers of pain throughout the injured arm as the metal scraped bone, but
Torvus held the stallion’s seat. Despite the agonizing pain, the warrior drew a
knife from a hidden pocket in the saddle and threw it with all the force that could
be mustered.
As if the Romans’ own goddess, Diana, guided the blade, it struck the archer
in the throat, right beneath his protective strap. The man pitched forward. A cry
went up along the front line, and the Romans had to fall back a step. But it was a
most important step. It taught these flushed peasants that even Rome could be
forced into retreat.
Drawing a short sword from its scabbard, Torvus fought with even more
verve. This battle could be won. The thought numbed the pain as no healer
could. The thrusts and parries blurred into one as the fighting dragged on, but
these Romans were hardy, and this legion of Caesar’s was particularly stalwart.
Torvus might have admired their constitution if they had not been birthed by the
nation that burned towns and clubbed babes.
Just at the edge of the warrior’s vision, Torvus saw one of the Spaniards go
down. Glancing back, Torvus found the sneering lieutenant scrambling away
from a well-armed Roman. The true battle lay ahead, yet the warrior could not
turn a cold shoulder to a comrade, no matter how much disliked.
In two strides, the stallion brought Torvus alongside the legionnaire. With a
single swipe, the Roman’s head was cleaved from his body. Even saved, the
lieutenant gave no sign of thanks or a word of warning.
The first that Torvus knew of the rear attack was when the lance pierced the
warrior’s thick leather armor and split it open. The Roman’s blade sliced through
the commander’s cloth and skin as if they were butter.
Torvus could not keep the ample fullness of her breast from losing its
binding. Blood poured from the wound, coursing down the very feminine
cleavage. Not caring of the exposure, the warrior swept the blade back and
caught the assailant in the chin, splitting open his skin down to the bone.
All was not lost. Torvus was turned away from the force of battle. This dark
secret, well hidden beneath layers of clothes, need never see the light of day. It
could have been kept, except for the lieutenant whose eyes had dilated to the
point of complete blackness.
Karret pointed to the exposed nipple. “You are a woman.”
Torvus did not respond. There was no time for explanations or excuses.
Whether they called her Torvus or by her given name, Syra, she was needed in
battle.
“Help me bind the wound,” Syra ordered. The warrior could feel the tide
turning behind them. The troops needed her seated and rallying forward,
crushing the Romans between their forces.
Instead of helping, the spoiled son of the blacksmith took a step back.
“Impostor!” the boy hissed.
Could this child not understand that despite her full breasts, in her heart she
was not a woman, but a warrior? Had she not fought valiantly? Had she not won
battle after battle for this man’s country? What did it matter her sex? But the
man’s face was contorted with rage.
It mattered greatly to him.
Syra tried a different tack. “I will leave your town once the battle—”
“Impostor!” Karret stated, loud enough for the closest troops to hear.
Syra kicked her horse forward and grabbed the lieutenant’s arm. “We can
win this. Do not allow—”
Her entreaty was no use. The man shouted at the top of his pampered lungs,
“Impostor!”
Weakened from her injuries, Syra could not repel the lieutenant when he
forced her to turn toward the troops. At first, her soldiers did not understand. The
blood distracted them from her deception. Seemingly unaware of the damage he
was doing to his battle or his home, the lieutenant ripped the warrior’s armor
completely off. Now, naked above the waist, Syra’s femininity could not be
hidden. The looks of shock and fear replaced the troops’ confidence.
With her identity revealed, the Spaniards milled about, and the Romans were
quick to push their advance. Whether it was the blood loss, the pain, or the
feeling of betrayal, Syra’s vision blurred. A blow from behind saved the warrior
from seeing her battle lost.
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