Tokens from Juliet

By Nicole Grane

“The years of battling in the Coliseum had prepared Darius for the acts of a warrior. The council of his brother had taught him to fight only with honor. The love of this woman had given him the heart to accept who he must become. Juliet had called him her gladiator . . . and he was. He would fight for her, not Rome. And if it meant protecting her, Darius would kill without hesitation.”
From the moment Darius Magnus looked upon Juliet, his heart was no longer his own. A criminal in the eyes of Rome, as well as a favored Gladiator, Darius must find a way to free himself from the Coliseum arena and save his Juliet from an army of Celtic warriors and an arranged marriage to a villainous Senator.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Grane
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311463531

Nicole Grane

Nicole Grane, lives in Washington with her three children. When she is not writing or reading, Nicole enjoys collecting cool rocks, oil painting, finding unique pieces of jewelry, and spending time with her family.Nicole has always loved mythology, folklore, and researching unique places. Having been privileged to travel, she can’t wait to incorporate some of her findings into her stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The chanting grew louder and louder. Darius had grown accustomed to blocking it out. But today, the memory of Marcus Magnus hung heavy in his heart.

"Do you remember the last time you rested your head against the grass?" He could almost hear his brother's voice. It was the same question he always asked Darius before a battle. It was meant to distract him. To remind Darius of where he was, and where he should be—home! Darius knew that his brother had felt tremendous guilt for their capture, but Darius never blamed him. He never once cursed his brother for the life he'd brought upon them. The Roman army had claimed their land and his brother had fought to keep it. Had he been there, he would have done the same.

"Do you remember the last time you rested your head against the grass?" the voice asked again, a little more impatiently this time.

Darius smiled to himself before answering, Four years, three, months, and fourteen days.

The cell doors squeaked open. Darius stood and walked toward the four guardsmen.

Is it a good day to die, Gladiator?

Darius looked to the guard that spoke, taking him in for what seemed like the hundredth time. He was older, maybe in his thirties, covered in the usual sweat and grime. He smiled at the man. "Today is not a good day to die."

The guardsman laughed and patted Darius on the back. I believe you Gladiator, I believe you. He motioned Darius on with a quick jerk of his head.

The sound of stomping feet grew louder and louder as Darius made his way to the arena, two guards flanking either side of him. Cheers of encouragement came from the cells that lined the tunnel, each housing doomed gladiators, awaiting their turn to die.

His eyes flickered to the sconces on the walls, the only light in this prison made of earth and stone. As Darius moved onward, the cheers of the heartless spectators rang loud. They would expect a show, and he would give it to them. Only a crowd favorite was sure to win the approval of the Emperor, and only the approval of the Emperor would guarantee him the chance to fight another day.

They paused when they reached the arena doors. Darius took the swords offered him and closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath and sent a silent prayer upward to the gods . . . begging any of them that might be listening, for the strength to fight well, and the courage to die.

A strong hand landed on Darius's armored shoulder, giving him a firm pat. The armor is good, Gladiator. It will keep you safe.

Darius nodded to the guard that had spoken earlier. The man was the closest thing to a friend he had in this retched place, now that his brother was gone.

He looked back to the doors as they parted, bathing him in the bright sunlight. He shielded his eyes for a moment, but only a moment; the beauty of the open sky and salty air were luxuries he could not afford to miss.

The guards parted, giving Darius permission to enter the arena. His name echoed over a loud speaker, announcing his arrival—the crowd erupted at the mention of it: DARIUS MAGNUS!

An array of colors speckled the audience. The crowd was on their feet cheering as Darius walked out onto the sandy floor of the arena. He didn't have time to marvel at the sight. By the roar of the spectators, he knew the stadium was full. Sixty-thousand people were said to fill those seats, but by all those calling out to him, he could have sworn there were a million.

A warrior with an axe came at him from the side, swinging upward in an attempt to cut him under the breastplate.

Darius was quick to spin out of his range—his sword even quicker. He'd sliced the warrior across the arm, delivering a wicked gash that brought bone to light.

The man howled in pain . . . but he would not suffer for long.

Darius was a Dimachaerius: a warrior trained to handle two swords at once. He quickly swiped the other blade across the man's throat and pushed past him as another warrior approached—this one with a spear!

The crowd cheered from above.

Darius greeted the warrior with a sword to the spear, blocking what would have been a nasty blow to his head. The warrior roared as the other end of his spear came around, knocking Darius in the knee.

The surprise blow to the crowd favorite caused boos from the spectators and anger to boil up from within Darius—he'd been careless. Before another blow was delivered, he plunged his sword through the warrior's middle, pushing the blade to the hilt before he pulled back and watched the man fall to the ground—dead.

Wild cheers erupted! The crowd was on their feet, clapping, chanting his name! DARIUS, DARIUS, DARIUS!

He looked to the Emperor and bowed in thanks at the thumbs-up he received—he would not die this day.

His eyes darted to a splash of color. Standing at the edge of a balcony, with what looked to be a mixture of horror and relief on her face, stood a girl dressed in purple. The brilliant sheen from the fabric she wore paled in comparison to her beauty.

Strong hands gripped at Darius's biceps. He paid little attention to the guards leading him back to the dungeon. His head was turned, his eyes, still on the girl, watched as she tossed something purple into the arena.

A man, much older than her, took her firmly by the shoulders, attempting to tug her away from the ledge. She gripped the wall all the tighter, fighting his strength. Her eyes, desperate and pleading, were locked with Darius's. Her lips parted as if to cry out, but she said nothing. Above all the chanting and cheers that still rang, Darius knew that if this angel spoke, his heart was sure to hear it.

He pulled himself loose from the guards and ran toward the purple object that lay on the ground. Whatever it was, he was sure she meant for him to have it. His heart pounded as he neared, the guards were close behind, shouting for him to halt.

The crowd cheered, as if expecting some sort of new battle to begin.

Darius dove for the fabric, his hands greedily clutching it with a tight fist. He looked up into her eyes, a smile, bright enough to rival the sun's warmth, met him.

The guards once again had him by the arms, but this time, they brought him before the Emperor's box. Darius knew that what he'd just done could cost him his life . . . but just then, he couldn't bring himself to care. His eyes were still on the young maiden that had somehow ensnared him.

LIVE, LIVE, LIVE! The crowd chanted their desire.

Darius tore his eyes away from the beauty to meet the Emperor's stern face. His arm was outstretched, his thumb mid-way, as if still contemplating what to do. He turned his thumb up and the crowd roared once again with excitement. Darius closed his eyes and took in a deep breath—the gods were with him today.

Without delay, the guards led Darius out of the arena, before he could catch another glimpse of his new sun.

Juliet clasped a trembling hand over her mouth as she waited for the Emperor's decision. What had she done? If this man died because of her, she'd never forgive herself.

From the moment she'd seen the gladiator come into the arena, her heart fluttered from within. She couldn't explain it. Men had died at the warrior's hand, yet she didn't see him as barbaric. He didn't kill like other gladiators. He didn't glory in bloodshed. On the contrary, he defended himself, valiantly, and triumphed.

The warrior had looked her way. In a crowd this large . . . Darius, they had called him, had actually seen her. His eyes, focused and determined, regarded her as if she were something glorious to behold. No man had ever stared at her like that, and Juliet couldn't help but smile at the memory.

She shook the thought away, her attention back to the Emperor who was turning his thumb upward. She let out a breath she did not know she'd been holding and sunk to the floor, her legs suddenly too weak to carry her. The crowd cheered loudly, echoing her heart's beat—the gods had heard her prayers—the warrior had been spared.

Juliet! Her father put an arm around her waist and helped his daughter to her feet. Child, are you alright?

Juliet looked into his worried face and then back to the arena. Darius was being led through the dungeon doors, back into the darkness, with the only piece of the outside world clutched tight in his hand. A piece from her . . .

Chapter 2

What were you thinking offering that gladiator your handkerchief? Her father bellowed, all signs of worry for her health gone. He had whisked her from the Coliseum and promptly returned home where he could discipline her privately. You made a public spectacle of yourself, nearly costing that man his life! I had bets today that would have inconvenienced me dearly had he been executed!

Juliet turned away from her father's red face. It was hard to imagine that he was a handsome man at times like these. His hair was beginning to gray, but Julius Argos was by no means old. He stood taller than her, his figure at times almost towering. Juliet had often wondered why he hadn't chosen a military career. He was built to destroy mountains. An army of Celtics would be no match for him.

I wasn't trying to complicate your finances father, she finally answered. I just . . . Juliet paused to think. She knew her father would not want to hear that his daughter wanted the gladiator to have something of hers. Such a romantic gesture would surely not sit well with the Senator. I only meant to reward him for his victory. I thought that was custom.

Her father threw his arms up into the air. Thank the gods your mother wasn't there to see that, he scolded. "You are the daughter of a Senator, to the Emperor. You must learn your place Juliet. Offering favors to a criminal . . . it's entirely unacceptable!"

I said I was sorry! Juliet buried her face in her hands and cried. She knew that it was a miracle Darius still lived. Running from the guards to retrieve her offered token, although romantic, was suicide. She still couldn't believe he'd risked his life for something of hers! Her heart fluttered once again. And you do not know he is a criminal!

At that, her father's eyes narrowed. You will clean yourself and dress for dinner, he ordered. A banquet is being held tonight in honor of the games tomorrow. As Senator, I must attend. As the only female in this household, it is your duty to accompany me. Without another word, he strode from her room, slamming the door behind him.

Juliet threw herself onto her pillows and sobbed. How could her father be so callous? He hadn't cared that a man nearly died. He'd only cared that he wouldn't get to collect his winnings from the event. He was glad her mother hadn't been there? How could he say such a thing? Juliet cried harder. Her mother had taken ill several years ago. Unable to fight the sickness that entered her body, she perished during a cold winter's night—Juliet mourned her daily. If only her mother were here to comfort her now, perhaps her father would not be so cross?

After what seemed like hours, Juliet sat up and wiped the tears from her face. The night air was beginning to creep in though the open window, the warm breeze nipping at her tear-streaked cheeks.

I can't believe he's forcing me to attend such a banquet, she grumbled aloud. Juliet found it disgusting that the gladiators were treated like kings one day, and led like animals to the slaughter the next. She shuddered at the thought.

She went to her dressing table, picked up a brush, and ran it through her hair; brushing out the soft brown curls that cascaded down her back. It was custom for a lady to wear her hair stacked high upon her head. But, being the youth that Juliet was, a maid of sixteen could still wear it down—she decided upon a fanciful braid with ribbon woven through it.

Juliet looked into the mirror. Her face was puffy, her eyes, normally green and clear, were red and blotchy. She poured water from the pitcher into a basin and washed her face; the cool liquid soothed her almost instantly.

After patting herself dry, Juliet went to her wardrobe and selected a deep blue dress. The bodice, trimmed with a delicate golden cord that crisscrossed over her chest, made her look older beyond her years, and signified her status. Fitting, she thought, as she pulled the dress on. The color mirrored her mood. With one last look at herself, she made her way down the stairs to