The Patrician

by Joan Kayse

  The whore finished her diatribe and Bryna nodded curtly. With a flip of coarse hair over one shoulder Silva sauntered with the other girl over to the overseers, one of whom promptly greeted her by cupping his hands around her huge breasts.

  Freed of her burden, Bryna stood erect, fisting her small hands on her hips, glowering after Silva. If he were to guess, Jared would say the whore was lucky to not go up in flames.

  He watched her shift attention to the group of thirsty men. The brilliance of the sun must be playing tricks with his eyes, for he swore her expression filled with compassion. Impossible. As she’d once accused him, you had to have a heart to possess softer emotions.

  She loosed one of the leather pouches from the pole, hoisted it into her arms and began to walk up the steep incline. Most of the men were too tired to move, but they called out, each vying to be the first to drink. She started at the far end from where he sat, handing the lucky man a shallow wooden bowl. When it was drained, she moved to the next in line, carefully refilling the vessel each time.

  Low throated pleas for more followed her. Hearing the plaintive note in their requests turned Jared’s stomach. He’d sooner die of dehydration then beg the barbarian for anything.

  From beneath hooded eyes, he watched as she patiently moved one to another, filling the cup to the brim every time, quietly reassuring the wretches that they would not be forgotten. She lightly touched shoulders, patted anxious hands, her dulcet words calming, like the soft strains of a lyre.

  “She has a good heart, that one,” said the wretched hunched beside Jared. His face was weathered like a piece of old leather, the top of his head void of any hair and the straggly brown beard covering his chin was streaked with dull white. He looked to be a hundred years old.

  Jared wiped his brow on his sleeve. “Old man, I think you have been under the sun too long.”

  The elder turned jaundiced eyes on him. “I’ve been a slave near all my life and have known very little kindness. When it comes along, you recognize it quickly enough.”

  Jared made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. The old man ignored it and took the bowl from the fellow next to him. Hands shaking, he held it out for Bryna to fill. Her features softened as she took the vessel from him, filled it with water then held it while he drank, smiling at him when he murmured his thanks. Jared stared. The smile transformed her from a mere beauty to a radiant one. He cursed as his cock tightened.

  Jared accepted the bowl from the old man, smirking at Bryna’s startled expression when she realized whom she served. Her cheeks flushed, either from the heat or their close proximity. A little of both, he decided as she self-consciously placed a hand over the loose neckline of her tunic to block his frank appraisal of the enticing cleft of her breasts.

  She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead, where tiny wisps of hair lay damp on her skin. “Do you wish to quench your thirst or not?” she demanded impatiently.

  “Dare I?” he drawled. “Likely it is poisoned.”

  She smiled sweetly. “The temptation was hard to overcome, but the others would be ill as well.”

  He scowled and thrust the cup in her direction. Lips pressed into a tight line, she filled it with water.

  Jared lifted the vessel to his lips. A sharp pain shot across his knuckles. The bowl flew into the air, bounced off Bryna’s arm, the water spilling onto the ground where it was absorbed by the dry dust.

  “There will be no water for the Jew,” growled Baal.

  Bryna backed away, averted her eyes from the vilicus. Jared refused, glared at the overseer, every muscle in his body going taut, prepared to lunge at the gloating fool, wrap his hands around Baal’s neck and squeeze until his eyes bulged from his head.

  Baal hunkered down in front of him. Using the hilt of his whip, he propped Jared’s chin up. “You want to kill me, don’t you slave?”

  Jared clenched his teeth. Of course he wanted to kill the sorry bastard. But he also wanted to live, so he held his tongue, focused his eyes over the man’s shoulder. He’d be damned if he’d lower them.

  Baal chuckled hoarsely. “Well done. At last you are learning who is master.” Turning on his heel, he joined the rest of the guards who were laughing and congratulating their manager for putting the slave in his place. Jared curled his injured hand into a fist, struggled to control the impotent fury churning in his gut.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  Bryna’s whisper jerked his attention away from Baal. He hesitated only a moment, then did as she instructed. Casting a furtive look at the overseers she filled his cupped hands with water. He drank quickly desperate not to lose a single drop. She filled them once more then stooped and retrieved the bowl. A smile tugged at his lips at the triumphant lighting her eyes.

  The sharp whistle of leather slicing through the air ended the brief respite. As the overseers urged the exhausted men to their feet, he watched Bryna hurry down the hill to join Claudia and Silva, who slapped her for keeping them waiting.

  A spade was thrust into Jared’s hands and the gang was directed to start digging the huge boulder out of the earth. Baal stood nearby, regarding him warily, his whip held loosely in his fist. Jared ignored him, thrust the shovel deep into the dirt, his trembling muscles falling into a mindless rhythm. But not his thoughts.

  Bryna had shown compassion to the slaves and courage in defying Baal. Courage or foolishness, he couldn’t decide for if the vilicus had caught her giving Jared water she would have been punished. An image of her chained to the post, her back in shreds, shot a bolt of dread through him.

  She put these chains on you.

  Jared ground his teeth, stabbed the earth, savored the weight of iron against his wrists. Sympathy was wasted on the little witch. She’d tricked him once.

  She would not trick him again.

  Chapter Eight

  The fading rays of the sun brushed across Bryna’s arms, dappling them in burnished gold. It had been hours since she had returned from the field rounds and Eda had kept them all busy with preparations for the evening feast. Only a dozen of Gaius’ closest friends and allies remained, yet the amount of food being prepared was staggering. There would be no rest this night.

  She dug her fingers into a head of lettuce and plopped it on the table. The Romans were such gluttons, gorging themselves to the point of vomiting, spewing into large gilded basins tended by slaves. Stomachs emptied, they readied themselves for the next course.

  Damn them. Bryna shredded the leaf in her hand into tiny pieces. Gaius and his sycophants ate like kings, while Jared was not allowed a single cup of water to quench his thirst.

  What a foolish thing she’d done, going against Baal. If he, or his overseers, or Silva had seen her? A cold shiver went through her.

  But she’d acted without thought, anger at Jared’s treatment overwhelming her good sense. Thank the gods his own hadn’t prevented him from reacting. It had been worth the risk to see the relief the water had brought his thirst.

  Beyond the kitchen, the clattering of iron chains interrupted her musings. Outlined against the half-light of dusk, she could see the field slaves being led to the estate prison, the estraglia, for the night.

  Not her concern but Bryna’s gaze sought him out. Jared was easy to spot in the midst of the weary, stooped men. Though he walked with an awkward shuffle imposed by the shackles, there was a dangerous edge to him that set him apart. She did a quick visual scan, noted a dark bruise on his left cheek. It had not been there that afternoon. Stubborn man, she wanted to shout, why must you always fight them?

  As the line shuffled past the cooking area, he turned and locked eyes with her just as he did every day. It made her uncomfortable and she suspected that was the intent. Yet tonight there was an unusual brightness in those hard, tawny eyes and she wondered briefly if he might not be coming down with the fever that had killed most of the slaves a month past. But that concern fled when he sent her a tight lipped smile.

  The man was insu
fferable. Ungrateful bastard. She picked up a tight, round lettuce, weighed it in her hand.

  “Hold!” shouted Baal.

  Jared just managed to stop before stumbling into the man in front of him, though the one behind him was not so quick. He reached back to support the old man before he could fall, acknowledging the grateful look sent him. He shot his gaze back to the crowded kitchen until he caught sight of Bryna lifting a large bowl. Had the witch really contemplated throwing a vegetable at him? She met his gaze without flinching and raised her chin a notch.

  Jared’s lips twitched. Gods, it couldn’t be in a smile for what reason did he have for mirth? He narrowed his gaze instead, bore into hers until she shifted her shoulders in discomfort and broke the contact by looking down at the bowl on the table. He wanted her to know that he had not forgotten, that he would have his retribution.

  Then, she raised her head and pinned him with a glare of her own.

  Jared raised a brow in surprise but had no further time to contemplate her spirited response.

  Baal and the other overseers stood at attention as Gaius and a handful of his company strolled out of the villa. The courtyard flared with torchlight as servants scurried ahead of their masters, lighting the way.

  A half-dozen ladies, their stolas a rainbow of burgundy, blue and saffron, followed their husbands. Most wore ornate necklaces set with huge gems that matched heavy earrings dangling from their lobes. Family heirlooms no doubt, brought out for the occasion. Appearances were very important in the Roman world. Jared set his jaw, thought of the times his mother had suffered for appearances sake.

  They were followed by a like number of men their faces sculpted with haughty demeanors wearing toga’s edged in purple, draped in the prescribed manner of Roman citizens. Gold signet rings adorned their soft hands and they sported fine leather boots with hardly a scratch upon the soles. A strong testimony to the wealth attained on the backs of slaves.

  The group came closer, sipping wine from jewel encrusted chalices, listening with interest as Gaius pointed out various aspects of his estate operation. A muscle ticked in Jared’s cheek when the overzealous party stopped in front of the line of exhausted men.

  “I have found an enclosure around the estraglia to be most advantageous.” Gaius was saying to his male guests. He gestured toward the prison just beyond the perimeter of the courtyard. “It affords a certain measure of extra security that I find very reassuring.” His friends murmured in agreement. Lifting his chalice to drink, Gaius caught Jared’s gaze, lowered his arm. “You there, third from the end. Step forward.”

  Schooling his expression to one of indifference, Jared stepped from the line. He planted his feet as far apart as the chain would allow and waited. Anger flared in his belly as several of the matrons openly appraised him, their lust-filled gazes failing to hide their disdain for a slave. He curled his hands around the chain and boldly met their startled gazes.

  “My goodness, Gaius, it’s a good thing this beast is restrained,” exclaimed an older woman, her wrinkled face gaudily painted with cosmetics. “From the look in his eye, I’d say he’d just as soon strangle us as serve us.”

  “My dear lady,” Gaius answered, “That is precisely why each of my slaves is shackled. You cannot trust one of them. They have no sense at all. Are quite ignorant, in fact.”

  “What is this one? A Greek? Thracian?” asked the man next to her, his rotund figure straining the folds of his toga. He took a drink of wine and then burped loudly.

  “Oh, I don’t like Greeks.” remarked another, “Hard to get any work out of them, always thinking.”

  “Let me guess,” cried a woman from the back wielding an ornately decorated fan. “He is a Gaul, fresh from one of our Roman victories!” She batted her lashes behind her fan. “He must be to possess such a sleek and well-muscled torso.” The women giggled.

  Gaius smiled wryly. “No, my friends, nothing as exotic as a Gaul. This slave is of a much lesser breed. He is a Hebrew.” The word fell like a curse from Gaius’ lips.

  The metal links bit into Jared’s palms as he gripped the chain, struggled to remain impassive as the group fell into an animated discussion of the worthlessness of the Hebrew race, but the old, familiar bile of bitterness burned Jared’s throat.

  “Oh my goodness,” exclaimed the woman with the fan, “What type of creature is that lurking in the shadows?”

  Jared glimpsed Bryna’s long plait of hair as she plastered herself against the wall of the kitchen. A dark foreboding swept over him. He gripped the chain harder, willed her to stay hidden.

  “You there, girl. Come here,” Gaius commanded.

  When Bryna did not immediately obey, Baal went after her, dragging her into the lighted courtyard..

  Jared’s heart stalled in his chest as Bryna jerked free and bolted. She was light on her feet and fast, like a deer frightened from its forage. Several of the matrons squealed in horror, while two of the men tossed their cloaks to their slaves and gave chase.

  He tracked her every movement. She was like a rabbit, weaving in and out between startled slaves, yapping dogs, a skittish donkey, and her bumbling pursuers. Gods, he had thought her stubborn, but not stupid. Had she learned nothing from his experience? From her own?

  One of the overseers made a tackling leap for her. Bryna scooted beyond his reach and lunged for the narrow opening between the laundry and the wine press. She was about to squeeze through when one of the Romans, a Centurion, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back.

  Gaius’ guests applauded, raising their wine glasses in salute as the Centurion tugged a struggling Bryna toward the waiting crowd. A muscle jumped in Jared’s cheek, anger and disgust churning his gut as the man openly fondled her breasts. Her scream of outrage was lost in the raucous laughter of his companions. With a loud oath, he dumped her at Gaius’ feet, shooting her a deadly glare as he suckled the teeth marks on his hand.

  “What were you doing there girl,” demanded Gaius. “Spying on my guests?”

  She didn’t answer, but kept her head down, hands clenched into fists. Jared could see that she was straining not to react but had little doubt that given the chance she’d gladly scratch their master’s eyes out. He couldn’t help but admire her courage while at the same time fearing she would do just that.

  “What type of creature is it?” asked the Centurion’s wife, eyeing her husband unsympathetically. “Does she not understand you, or does she defy her master?” The group laughed.

  Gaius’ jaw worked at the jibe from his friends. He stared down at Bryna, who picked that moment to lift her head and look at him. The Roman slapped her hard with the back of his hand. She reeled from the force of it, but was kept from falling by the Centurion’s foot.

  Jared had not realized he had moved until the bony hands of the old man dug into his arm. “Let it go, boy,” he hissed. “You risk death over a girl?”

  His gaze remained on the group surrounding Bryna. The wisdom in the old man’s advice warred with his instinct. He’d only succeed in getting himself killed. He had no clue what prompted this rush to defend her other than she was a vital link to solving his betrayal. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that she looked so vulnerable, kneeling at the mercy of Gaius. With more effort than he cared to recognize, he pushed the desire to protect her to the dark recesses of his mind and eased back into line.

  “Baal, where was this slave purchased?” asked Gauis’ wife, a plain faced woman whose expensive jewelry did nothing to compensate for her dowdy appearance.

  “As I recall mistress, she is a barbarian, bought cheaply through a broker at the market in Alexandria,” Baal replied.

  “My dear Una,” drawled an elderly matron, “Barbarians are quite disagreeable as house slaves. Extremely wild and unpredictable. I trust she does not have access to your children?” She angled her head knowingly to her audience. “It’s well known they sacrifice babes such as your boy and drink their blood before cutting them up and roasting their flesh.�
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  Jared rolled his eyes as Una went completely pale, swaying against her husband.

  The matron continued, less interested in blood sacrifices than Bryna’s hair. “But, I dare say this is a most unique color! Why, it is even more engaging than the blonde hair from the Germanic savages. The elite ladies of Rome sport quite wonderful wigs made from hair such as this. It is quite the fashion.”

  He slid his gaze to Gaius, who was studying Bryna’s bowed head thoughtfully. The pit of his stomach sank as he realized what Gaius meant to do.

  “Well, then dear guest. We must have you in fashion. As a gift, you shall have the locks of this defiant slave.”

  Bryna’s head snapped up disbelief filling her eyes.

  “Baal, see to it.”

  The chains on Jared’s ankles rattled noisily as he took a half-step forward. Gaius drew his sword, thrust it into his chest. The tip sliced the coarse fabric of his tunic, dug into his skin. He could feel blood oozing from the wound. “Cause me no trouble, slave. I will not hesitate to have you flogged to death.” Applause broke out among the Romans.

  Jared looked at the point of the sword then boldly met Gaius’ eyes. Beyond his master’s shoulder he could see Baal and his minion shuffle Bryna toward the whipping post. Jared inhaled sharply as Gaius twisted the tip, neatly taking a chunk of skin out of his chest. Sheathing his weapon, he sent Jared a final warning look before he joined his guests.

  They bound Bryna’s wrists and secured her head to the wood with a length of rope. Pulling off the scrap of frayed cloth holding her braid together, Baal spread her hair out with his grimy hands.

  In the glow of the torchlight, her thick tresses shimmered red and gold, mimicking the brilliance of the fire. Jared could see her shoulders trembling with outrage and his buried anger at Roman justice flamed in his gut.

  Sawing back and forth, Baal’s blade sliced through the thick mass of curls cleanly stripping it free from her head. He turned and handed the locks to Gaius who, with a regal bow, presented them to the matron. She clapped her hands in glee and bade a hovering maid servant to carry them back to the villa.