The Patrician

by Joan Kayse

  Finished with the collecting and arranging of the items, the girl dropped to the floor just inside the doorway, drew her knees up to her chin, stared outside and promptly ignored Jared.

  For a long while the only noise interrupting the quiet room came from slaves in the courtyard hurrying about their duties. Jared contemplated the rigid line of the seer’s back. She was acting like a spoiled brat or worse like a scorned woman, all temper and huff. He couldn’t even use the conciliatory tools useful to any man—soothing words and pretty gifts were beyond his reach or his inclinations. But the fact remained that she was the key to finding his betrayer so concessions must be made. Shifting back to a sitting position, his teeth gritted against both the pain and the rattle of the chains he asked, “What is your name?”

  Her head tilted in his direction, but she refused to look at him. “Why do you care about my name? Tomorrow you will be sent to work in the fields. We will never speak again.”

  A grim smile curved his lips. Oh, they would speak again, and at great length. “Still, I would know your name. What did your family call you?”

  Tension tightened her shoulders as she considered his question. At last she answered. “I am Bryna.”

  “Strange name,” he muttered.

  “It is my name,” She shot him a challenging look. “The Romans have not taken that from me.”

  He couldn’t resist a jab at her pride. “The custom of Roman masters is to give their slaves a Latin name. A favorite goddess or mythical creature.”

  She blew out her breath. “Having a Roman name would be the same as a curse.”

  He pressed his lips together. That was true enough. Was he not living proof? His Roman name had never done anything but bring him grief. It had not even saved him from slavery.

  She cast him a furtive glance. “What god did they name you after?”

  He didn’t miss the sarcasm in her question but chose to ignore it. His head was beginning to throb again, exhaustion seeping into the marrow of his bones. Tomorrow he would begin another day in slavery—and a new plan to gain his freedom.

  The glow from the lamp dimmed as the meager supply of oil was consumed. In another moment, it went out, casting the room into complete darkness.

  “Will you not answer the question?” she persisted.

  He closed his eyes. “I will, witch. My name is Jared. Jared ben Gideon. Son of Gideon.” Son of a Roman. “A name I promise you will never forget.”

  Chapter Seven

  Like a mongrel fighting to hold onto a choice bone, Bryna resisted the tug to awaken. It was pleasant in this dream world, where the scent of dew covered grass mingled with the salt sting of cold air swirling in from the sea. She was home.

  Standing on the sharp edge of the cliffs near the ring fort where her kinsmen lived, she allowed the gusting wind to lift her unbound hair. A prickle of unease scratched at her demanding attention but she ignored it, tossed her head and relished the world around her, raised her arms to welcome the gale.

  The tempest gave her solace, provided an outlet for the torrent of emotions that churned within her—anger, hurt, anxiety. Over her shoulder she could make out faint outlines of her clansmen moving about their daily tasks within the ring fort. She would swallow her pride, find Bran and coax him out of his brooding, tell him it wasn’t important that he believe her visions. She would never speak of them again. It wouldn’t be difficult to bury the hurt so long as things were back to normal with the brother she loved.

  No, do not take away the peace. Bryna knew none of this was real, knew she was dreaming but her silent plea went unheeded. Despair mixed with dread as the dream path sent her toward the village. It disappeared, engulfed in an opaque white mist. She’d been in a fog like this before and the memory chilled her as the vapor enshrouded her, plucking at her with icy fingers. Panic rose in her throat and she stumbled forward, disoriented. She opened her mouth to call for help but no sound came out. Moving to her left she was stopped by an invisible wall, was met by the same to the front and the right. She turned around and faced the cliffs.

  She inched her foot forward, arms raised to feel for the barrier. Three more small steps and still her way was unimpeded. She swallowed hard, strained to hear the pounding of the waves breaking on the rocks below. As if in answer to her hesitation, she felt the mist coalesce behind her, pushing her gently forward. Just when she knew she’d be tumbled over the cliff edge, the fog dissipated and she saw him.

  He was lying spread-eagled on an ivory carved bed, his arms and legs chained, stretched to their limits. Naked, every inch of his skin golden bronze, his chest broad and sprinkled with crisp black hair that arrowed down the ridged plane of his belly. Intrigued as much as she was embarrassed she shifted her gaze to his face. He was so handsome, his square jaw tight with anger, a muscle jumping in his cheek beneath the dark stubble of a beard, cold golden eyes glittering with rage.

  Jared, the wind whispered. His name is Jared. Bryna took a hesitant step toward him. Firm, hard muscles bunched in his limbs as he struggled against his bonds. She kept walking, fascination outweighing the fear. He watched her approach; rage filled eyes.

  Bryna sat on the edge of the bed and absorbed the vision of raw masculinity. Curiosity won out over reason, for reason had fled the minute she’d met his gaze. Lightly, she trailed her hands over the sculptured ridges of his stomach, noting with delight the way he shuddered beneath her touch. Slanting her gaze to his face she saw his eyes go dark with desire. She was in control and it pleased her to know it.

  Leaning across him she continued her exploration. His flesh was warm and smooth beneath her touch as she feathered her hands along his chest, over his shoulders down his arms. Laying her cheek over his heart she could hear the rapid staccato of its beat, felt the hiss of hot breath against her hair as her breasts rubbed against his chest.

  Straightening, she shifted her gaze downward past lean hips to where his manhood nestled in a bed of coal black hair. Hesitantly at first, for such things were foreign to her, she wrapped her hands around his shaft. The rattling of the chains was deafening as she stroked and teased his cock until it stood rigid as a staff beneath her fingers. Her eyes widened at the sight and her confidence slipped.

  A warning flashed hot like a forge within her and she knew she’d reached a point of danger. She gave him a sideways look, noted the thunderous expression that reminded her of a feral beast set to devour its prey. She stretched her hand over his stomach. One last stroke...

  Before the sound of chains clattering could register in her mind, a bronzed hand wrapped around her wrist. She shot her gaze up to meet his hard golden glare and one hissed word.

  “Witch.”

  “Noooooooooo!” she cried, covering her ears.

  “Aghhhh! Not again!”

  The vision dissolved as a sharp kick connected with her hip. Bryna’s eyes snapped open. She passed a trembling hand over her face, shifted her gaze upward to find another of the kitchen slaves, Silva standing over her.

  “Every night, you disturb our sleep,” she hissed.

  Bryna rolled her eyes. Sleep couldn’t be very high on this girl’s list as she spent nearly every night away from their cramped sleeping quarters servicing the overseers.

  Bryna caught Silva’s foot when it came at her again, grunting in satisfaction when her attacker fell back against the wall. Better if the plump little whore had fallen on her ample ass.

  “How dare you touch me?” Silva sputtered, rubbing an arm that showed no sign of injury.

  Bryna waved her hands in an erratic pattern, lowered her voice ominously and muttered in her native language, “Leave me alone, lest I cast one of my heathen spells on you.”

  The girl paled, glowered at her and raced out the door.

  The other occupant of the room, a slave named Penelope, pushed up on one elbow. “And what spell did you cast on her?”

  Bryna shrugged. “I called down the wrath my gods to turn her into a pig.”

  “Too la
te for that.”

  Bryna met the woman’s smile and they laughed.

  “It is amusing,” Penelope said, sighing heavily as she stood up, her huge belly causing her to sway.

  Bryna reached out a steadying hand. The babe, it was rumored, was a gift from none other than Gaius, their master. The Roman’s own child would be born a slave.

  Penelope smiled her thanks. “But she has Eda’s ear and she would like nothing better than to find a way to make you suffer. Be careful.”

  Bryna nodded absently and watched as Penelope squeezed through the narrow door to attend her duties. She wasn’t concerned about Silva or Eda for they would do as they pleased for she would not be there to be a target. The night for her escape was only three days away.

  She gathered her hair at the nape of her neck, fastened it with a piece of shredded linen. But her thoughts were not of her escape plans but her dream of Jared. Gods, how could a chained man seem so dangerous?

  Baal and his men had come for Jared the morning after his beating. Shouting curses and dragging him to his feet, they had prodded him out of the room, laughing when he stumbled over his fetters, leaned his battered shoulder against the door.

  His rage had been palpable and Bryna had found herself willing him not to fight the vilicus. A cold shiver went through her at the memory of the dark, accusing glare Jared had shot her and the sharp stab of guilt that had taken her breath. In the seven days since, she’d not seen him once and could only wonder how he fared.

  Bryna blew out an irritated sigh. Her concern could do nothing to change his fate. Yes, her remorse over the role she’d played in his betrayal lessened in knowing he lived, but his refusal to believe that she did not know who wished him dead dulled the edge of worry. An image of a square jaw, taut with defiance, flashed through her mind along with the whistle of a lash.

  Dagda, she would drive herself mad. In three days’ time, when the moon was but a sliver in the night sky, she would make her escape and Jared would be nothing more than a horrid memory. Eda bellowed from the kitchen. Bryna scrambled to her feet and hurried out the door.

  The morning passed in a frenzy of activity. The kitchen slaves were kept busy preparing vast quantities of food for Gaius and his houseguests—boiled eggs, fresh greens, snails in wine sauce and hard cheese. Bryna rubbed her arm against her forehead. She wished these Romans would return to their own homes and give the slaves a moments rest. Bryna suppressed a smirk. A ludicrous idea, as slaves only existed to meet their master’s needs. If they died of exhaustion, there would always be others to replace them.

  Alone, Bryna had plucked clean another dozen geese, placing them on large iron spits which Boy and another child tended over a brick fire pit. A whole pig had been slaughtered as well. She wished she could lose herself in the endless drudgery, let her hands work, keep her mind blank. But it didn’t work. No matter what her task, her thoughts drifted constantly to Jared.

  By noon it seemed that she had been working for days. Her arms felt torn from their sockets by the weight of two wooden water buckets. It was the fifth trip she had made to the well because several of the Roman ladies had decided on private toilettes instead of availing themselves of Gaius’ bath.

  She was so hot and thirsty. Glancing around to be sure no one was watching, she dipped her hands in the water, took a healthy drink then sluiced it across her flushed face. A soft sigh of relief escaped her lips.

  “Slacker!” Eda shrieked from behind.

  Instinctively, Bryna whirled around, fists clenched, ready to give the hateful woman a taste of her own. Over Eda’s shoulder, she caught sight of Penelope, her pale face creased with worry, shaking her head in warning. Bryna dared a glance at Eda’s twisted features before lowering her eyes, but kept her hands tightly fisted.

  Only three more days, she reminded herself and you’ll be free of the old crone. She’d be free of Jared. “Forgive me, mistress.”

  “That’s better,” said Eda, her voice dripping with disdain.

  She winced as Eda gripped her upper arm and pulled her toward the well. “I’ll not abide a lazy slave. You shall accompany Silva and Claudia on field rounds.”

  The girls in question were pouring buckets of water into a pair of amphorae. Claudia bowed her head as they approached, but Silva did not. The harlot simply stared at Eda with undisguised loathing.

  Eda didn’t seem to notice. She released Bryna’s arm with a painful wrench, saying to Silva and Claudia. “Since Pero lies abed too ill to work, the barbarian will go with you to the fields.”

  “We do not need her help,” spat Silva. “Send someone else, the Boy or one of the men.”

  “Ach, you’d like that wouldn’t you, you slut, sending one of the men,” Eda retorted sharply. “Do you not open your legs up enough with the guards?” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you opened them to my husband?”

  If she had, Silva was smart enough to deny it. “Never mistress. Truly, he has eyes only for you.”

  Bryna snorted, earning herself a nasty look from Silva.

  “The barbarian goes.”

  Silva bowed her head in acquiescence. Eda nodded, and then stalked off to terrorize another victim.

  Bryna met Silva’s narrowed gaze. She could almost hear her mind working to devise some evil.

  “I am mistress of the field rounds,” Silva announced with mock importance. “You will follow my every instruction.”

  Claudia giggled. The two were definitely plotting some kind of mischief. Bryna sighed. She could feign magical powers again, put them on edge, but remembered Penelope’s warning from this morning. It would be unwise of her to draw attention to herself especially with her escape so near. She nodded and asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  Claudia snatched up a long, wooden pole from where it leaned against the stone well and shoved it into her hands.

  Sighing, Bryna balanced it across her shoulders, wrapping her hands around the smooth wood to keep it in place while two boys, each carrying a huge leather skin bulging with water, fastened their burdens with thin ropes on either end. She tipped to one side when one of the boys released his bag moments before the other one. Silva and Claudia made no attempt to hide their amusement while slaves working nearby laughed outright.

  A wave of heat spread across her face as she struggled to keep the bags balanced and herself from falling head first into the dirt. They thought her a witch, and at that moment, she wished for all the powers attributed to such an entity. Silva would look so much better as a toad.

  Picking up a lighter vessel, Silva led the way to the fields.

  ***

  The overseers stood around the huge boulder scratching their asses.

  Jared watched with the other slaves sprawled out beneath the sparse shade of a half dead oak tree, unsure whether he’d sat upon the hard ground of his own accord or if his legs had simply given out. Either way, he welcomed the rest while the overseers conferred on the best way to remove the obstruction. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. Whatever method chosen, it would be done on the breaking backs of the chained men.

  He considered the deliberating guards. They were a motley lot whose only pleasure in their grim lives came with the power they wielded over men too weak and restrained to be a threat. They searched for excuses to brutalize the slaves. Labeled a Jew since he’d been sold, Jared had quickly become a target for their sharp tongues and biting lashes.

  Absently, he reached for his mother’s amulet. That he had managed to keep the precious heirloom hidden from the slave dealer then the quarry manager was, he’d allow, a miracle. The necklace, a gift from his grandfather to his mother when she married a Roman was a way for her to remember her roots, the traditions of her faith. Jared used it to remember how honoring those traditions had led to her death.

  He shifted his attention to the other slaves. In this particular gang, there were twenty men of varying ages, although he suspected many were younger than they appeared. Their gaunt, haunted faces were devoid of any emoti
on save hunger and desolation. He spread his hand over the hollow of his own stomach, which was becoming increasingly lean. One bowl of bland gruel and a loaf of stale bread a day was barely enough to keep them alive. Even the coarse gray tunic issued to him the day after his flogging hung loose from his shoulders.

  He closed his eyes, rubbed at the tender skin beneath the thick cuff around his ankle. His fingers came away streaked with blood. Did the blood come from the chains, the numerous lash marks that crossed his legs, or the blisters lining his palms from wielding the crude spade and hoe? In truth, he couldn’t tell. He only knew he had to find a way to escape this hell and soon or he’d be in no condition to try.

  A low murmuring began among the exhausted men. He followed their collective gaze, spotted several girls from the villa walking toward them. The two in front he recognized as the eager whores of the overseers. But the old man who usually carried the yoke of water skins was missing. Instead, a third girl trailed behind them, the weight of her burden painfully obvious in her slow, uneven steps.

  The barbarian! He’d recognize her if not by face or the deep gold of the long braid swinging against her hips, then by the stubborn set to her shoulders. He rubbed the back of his hand across his chin. How would her hair would look loose and cascading around that lithe body?

  He massaged the scar on his temple, squeezed his eyes to clear his vision and his mind. The heat must have baked his brain. The bitch would as soon plunge a knife in his back as look at him.

  Yet, every day since his arrival, the girl had plagued his thoughts. Bryna had played the innocent to perfection, denying knowledge of the whoresons who’d sent him into this hell. Even her reasoning that as a slave she’d had no choice in the matter of betraying him was undisputable. But the memory of the defiant jut of that perfect chin, the fire in those extraordinary emerald eyes, convinced him that no one could make her do what she did not want to do.

  Silva spoke rapidly, giving instructions of some sort. Bryna was breathing hard as she knelt, slipping the yoke from her neck. Jared frowned. Surely she had not carried the heavy load the whole way from the villa to the field?