That night in Dacia four years ago, I was newly appointed centurion by my uncle, who I’d known was not a good man. I’d left our camp with three of my trusted men that night only to get away from this oppressive feeling that I was on a path of my uncle’s choosing and there was nothing I could do to escape from him or his appalling plans for Rome. There was a constant pall of gloom pressing down on me. Then, unexpectedly, I’d watched this young, beautiful woman dance with fire in her heart and defiance in her eyes as she looked upon me, an enemy. For our brief encounter, she’d given me hope. As
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