Felicissimus paced the library with the chip on his shoulder that he’d worn since Cyprian dismissed him at the arena. “Why not stage a rebellion? Have Cyprian publicly proclaim his allegiance to Christ, and storm the proconsul’s palace? War seems a better plan than this marriage.”“For whom? Do you plan to take up the sword, little man?” Caecilianus closed the door, shutting off the view of the nosy wedding guests mingling in the hall. “The church must never become the spear pointed at Rome.”“Better we remain the dung beneath Rome’s boot?” Felicissimus asked with a growl, casting his disapproval before Cyprian, who stood staring out the windows that overlooked the garden. “What say you, solicitor?”Caecilianus jumped in with an answer. “I’m certain Cyprian is grateful for your concern, but he’s graciously agreed to this wedding as a means to a peaceful, legal resolution.”“Is it true, then, my patronus?” Felicissimus’s outrage bore into Cyprian’s back, but he continued watching the slaves flutter about, lighting lamps and candles for the biggest night of his life.
