Roman by Heather Grothaus

Adrian shook out a large canvas and lashed one edge behind the driver’s seat. Isra lay down on her back and Adrian’s wife leaned over the side of the bed and squeezed the vague shape of her arm before withdrawing and turning to Roman. Behind her, Constantine and Adrian drew the canvas over the bed, closing the woman from Damascus in darkness.
    â€œI shallna embrace you,” Maisie said with a lift of her chin. She met his eyes, and Roman understood.
    Maighread Lindsey had a strange and special gift, and it was clear she had no desire to risk catching a glimpse of whether or not he would return. He was glad she did not.
    Roman gave the woman who was once a queen a short bow. “Until we meet again, then.”
    A ghost of a smile played across Maisie’s face. “Until we meet again.”
    The clang and scrape of the gate echoed in the bailey when Adrian finished the knot at his corner of the canvas and, brushing his hands together so that the sleeves of his robe rose and displayed the fantastic black markings on his forearms, he strode to Roman.
    â€œThe weather will be more fair once you have reached Venice,” he said. “Be sure to hang the sick flags and build a sizable fire at night.” Adrian met Roman’s eyes. “Take care, my friend.”
    The two men embraced and then Adrian took Maisie’s hand and was gone, leaving only Roman and Constantine in the bailey, along with the silent woman hidden away in the cart.
    Stan was walking about the cart a final time, making a show of checking the canvas lashings. Roman waited until he had played out the act to his satisfaction. At last, the general turned to him.
    He withdrew a sealed square of parchment similar to the one Victor had given him and hesitated for only a heartbeat before handing it to Roman.
    â€œNot that I am certain you will have chance to deliver this,” he said with a cynical lift of his eyebrow.
    Roman took the message. “Who is it for?”
    â€œBaldwin. No one’s eyes save his. If you cannot place it in his hands, burn it.” Stan looked up. “God be with you, brother.”
    Roman’s composure suffered a blow at hearing the same words from Constantine’s mouth that he had spoken on the day of the fall at Jacob’s Ford.
    Roman held out his hand. “For Chastellet,” he said, calling down with all his might the power of the phrase with which he had answered Constantine before he had plunged into battle, helmless, hopelessly outnumbered, gravely betrayed. They had lived that day.
    But Constantine shook his head as he looked at Roman’s outstretched hand. “No. We can no longer save Chastellet.” He looked up. “All we have is one another.” And then he grasped Roman’s hand.
    â€œFor one another, then,” Roman echoed and took Constantine’s forearm with his other hand, gritting his teeth at the sight of the once formidable general’s bloodshot and glistening eyes.
    They broke apart and turned away from each other, Roman striding toward the front of the cart and Constantine dissolving into the fortress that was Melk. Roman climbed up on the seat and picked up the reins, adjusting his position and flicking the donkey awake.
    â€œHa!” he called, and the cart lurched forward.
    Roman couldn’t see Victor in the darkness as he rolled through the gates and past the enormous winged statuary to either side of the path, but he could hear the abbot’s quiet Latin. The smell of the incense smoldering at his side stung his nose and made his eyes water, his throat itch. Roman swallowed hard and set his jaw.
    It was time to return to Damascus, to once more save his friends.

Chapter 6
    I sra fell asleep not long after the cart began moving. She had not rested well in her subterranean cell, but now that she was swaddled and hidden away in the back of a rough cart driven by Roman Berg, she felt as if nothing could harm her. There were no