Chapter Two

One Week Earlier

O constancy! be strong upon my side;
Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue;
I have a man's mind, but a woman's might.
How hard it is for women to keep counsel! (2.4.6)

It was clear by the twelfth day of her journey that Portia was going to get pretty far without Legion intercession. Her father and Alecto had taught her well. And unless Mars himself willed otherwise, she was going to find Joshua Graham before they caught up. It was twenty days in before that occurred, before Vulpes Inculta was sent out to track her down. Portia had known it was only a matter of time before he was free to do so. So far he'd been caught up in Flagstaff, acting the part of secret police in some classified capacity, as the Frumentarii sometimes had to do. It was one of the reasons they were hated as much as they were feared and respected. They had ears everywhere, and Vulpes in particular had taken the Frumentarii to an entire new realm of skill since he had gained leadership.

Vulpes. He was the only man in the Legion that concerned Portia. Not just his near inhuman ability as a spy and soldier, but the political implications of his existence. Namely, marriage. It was only a matter of time before her father decided upon a man to take control of his unruly daughter. Rumor had it that it would be Lucius, but Portia knew better. No, Vulpes would be a far greater ally in that sense. Caesar kept his riskiest men the closest to him.

"Anyway," she'd once overheard Caesar saying to an advisor, "it's gonna take someone of his caliber to tame my little girl."

My little girl. It was a rare occasion that he referred to her in such an affectionate way. Of all his children, she was his biggest liability. She respected the man, loved him, believed in his goals. But not even a sense of familial duty, or allegiance to the Legion and all its ideals, could keep Portia from answering the call within her—the one that demanded Joshua Graham's head at her feet.

V*P

The watch on Portia's wrist read 3:18. Outside, that late night/early morning chill had evolved into a cold temperature worthy of the current month, October. It was still. That's what woke her up. The pervasive quietness was too much to be normal this close to Freeside. No random shouts in the distance, no spatters of gunfire—not even crickets. Common sense told Portia that someone was nearby. Her heart immediately quickened and it was that inevitable point when her lack of training kicked in and pesky emotion took over. There was panic because if she was caught now, chances were slim that another opportunity to track Graham down would arise. Worse, it might not be Legion out there. The wasteland was chock-full of threats much greater than her father's men.

The rifle leaning against the bed frame was loaded already, so when Portia stood, she was able to grab it, tie her laces, and leave rather rapidly. Down the hall, out the back door, midway into the sparse, untended field of wheat—footsteps. Quite clear, in fact. Two things were instantly obvious: one, someone was indeed following her, and two, that someone wanted Portia to know. The predator alerting the prey, upping the ante and the thrill of the chase. Either that or she was giving her pursuer too much credit and it was, in fact, just a poor tracker, a raider or a Fiend. They had no qualms about noise. The last story she'd heard about a raider, this one at the trading post over on 188, told of a young woman who was caught, drugged, raped, and then literally shred to pieces for their amusement. Crazy fuckers.

There was the soft brush of plants being passed. Closer now. She sped up, making for the far fence, which bordered a small cliff. The only option then would be to jump—better than the alternative, which was to engage in a fight with whomever now followed. The pounding of Portia's heart replaced any other sound, any other physical feeling. It took an intense amount of focus to keep from becoming overwhelmed. 100 feet, 50 feet, almost there. She reached her hand out to grab the fence, splinters be damned, as her pursuer caught up and grabbed her by her upper arms, jerking her back with force. Her rifle flew off somewhere to the side.

Quickly she went limp, hoping to surprise the attacker with her weight, but the person kept a tight hold. In compensation, Portia sprung back up and pushed back with as much strength as she could. The only thing she succeeded in doing was knocking the air out of her lungs. Her attacker was a statue. Without warning she was flipped around and her startled eyes looked up into the cold, irritated face of Vulpes Inculta.

Damn, she thought. In that moment, Joshua Graham slipped away—her dream of finding that murderer and gutting him disappeared, and all she was left with was painful regret. It soon gave way to severe annoyance and a more distant feeling of apprehension at just exactly what Vulpes was going to do to her now.

For now, all he did was stare down at her with that customary disdain. One of his hands made its way to her throat, gripping it easily, squeezing the soft flesh ever so slightly. The implication of the gesture was clear: game over. Vulpes was the master of the hunt and he held his prey's life between insipid fingers. And despite herself, Portia swallowed heavily and shuddered. That traitor fear made its presence known. A flash of something lit up Vulpes' eyes briefly—she imagined the fear excited him in his perverse way.

Finally, after long, torturous moments of just staring at one another, Vulpes deigned to speak.

"Ave, dulce."

"Ave, dominus."

His thumb reached up to stroke her chin gently, accentuating the affection with which he bestowed her pet name. Just for them. Always for them. In contrast, Portia called him master with just the barest tone of insolence, her surprise fading into something more steely, something ready to fight. Nothing else was said for several seconds. This was their game, a minute battle of wills. Invariably, he was the victor because Portia always looked away first. No matter the long years she had known him, getting used to the intensity of his gaze was not feasible… or desirable, even, for then he wouldn't be Vulpes Inculta, the man whose very name struck fear into the enemies of the Legion.

So Portia dropped her eyes like a good Legion female, and a moment later Vulpes' hand disappeared from her slender neck, though the feeling of his cool grip remained.

"It seems your men are not as skilled as my father thought," Portia commented carelessly, though she still watched the ground, not quite ready to endure his scrutiny.

The hand that still held her arm tightened noticeably, but she didn't flinch. Rather, she asked, "How did you find me?"

"I never lost track of you."

His answer made her gasp and snap her head up. It was clear his words were deadly serious.

"Come now, little bird. You didn't think I'd leave you alone, did you?"

Vulpes knew she disliked that particular nickname, knew it made her feel like the child it once belonged to.

"Vappa ac nebulo!" Portia practically spat the insult at him. He was unfazed. Stepping back, she folded her arms and leveled an icy stare in his direction. "Why did you wait so long to collect Caesar's property? A dangerous game."

The thin smile that graced his lips was infuriating. It said everything and nothing while he himself remained silent. Portia soon figured it out. He had let her go on her adventure. It was a lesson. But a lesson in what? Futility? Inferiority? Powerlessness? She ground her teeth as she contemplated the answer. And yet—

And yet… he had still let her go. And in their world of political intrigue and power dynamics, that was saying a lot. He had risked much to allow her brief freedom. Portia softened at the thought. It seemed he'd given her as much time as he could without taking action. Had she only gotten to Graham a little faster…

Vulpes watched the transparent thought process transpire in front of him with a neutral expression, waiting for her inevitable acceptance. It didn't take long.

Finally, Portia's shoulders slumped. Without warning she wrapped her arms around Vulpes and laid her cheek against his armored chest, letting the cold steel soothe her sunburned skin. He didn't hesitate in returning the embrace, something which would have been forbidden back home. One didn't just touch the daughter of the Son of Mars.