The Patrician

by Joan Kayse

  Bryna’s hands curled into tight fists. The poor man. No doubt the sparse goods had been on their way to the marketplace. A mere pittance would have been had for the sorry produce, but for the gaunt man weeping on his knees it would have meant coin to feed his family. She glared after the military unit, started toward the man.

  Before she could take a step, Jared broke away from her and walked over to the distraught farmer. She watched, amazed as he placed a hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. Then positioning his hands on the edge of the wagon, he effortlessly tilted it back on its wheels. Then he helped the farmer gather the vegetables into baskets, packing them into the wagon.

  He met her astonished look with a scowl. “What?”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “I think the horse was right. I think you can be kind.”

  He released a sigh of exasperation and grasped her hand. “Why is it you can only equate my finer characteristics with that of dumb beasts?” She closed her mouth when he raised his hand, but that did not stop her from smiling as she followed him into the city.

  ***

  “I don’t like it here.”

  Bryna sat beside Jared on a splintered wooden bench, her feet barely reaching the floor, while the long length of his legs were thrust beneath the equally warped table in front of them. Bile rose in her throat. It smelled like Coeus’ hellhole. Why he had decided to use the very last of their coin to eat at such a public spot as this miserable taverna, she couldn’t fathom.

  Tucked into a corner of the serving area, their table offered little shelter, open on three sides and shaded by a worn striped canopy. She scanned the vast open area stretched out before them. The Forum, Jared had called it, a place for the elite of Rome to congregate, debate policies, practice politics and worship the gods of the Empire. Even now, as dusk approached, this Forum was filled with all manner of people. Merchants, tradesmen, people of wealth and the poorest beggars. And slaves. Bryna released a shaky breath. More slaves than could be counted. She scanned the crowd anxiously. And slave hunters? “Why are we here?” she asked.

  “For supper.” he answered casually, raising a dented cup full of watered wine to his lips. He glanced at her again. “You haven’t touched your plate. I paid good money for that food.”

  Bryna picked at the wedge of stale cheese. “It’s rotten.”

  “It’s better than Gaius’ fare,” he said with a wry half smile.

  “I’m not hungry,” she answered, pushing the dish away. “Now tell me why we are here.”

  He took a deep breath, looked out at the bustling square. “I know someone here who may help us acquire passage on a ship.”

  “You know someone in Rome?” She narrowed her eyes. “I thought Alexandria was your home?”

  Keeping his gaze on the dusk dappled crowd he drained his cup. “Rome is far reaching. Alexandria is but another province of the Empire.”

  She frowned at the bitter tone of his words.

  “It is not so unusual that I would know someone here in Rome.” He turned his gaze on her, a curtain falling over those golden eyes. “I was not always a slave.”

  His comment was without rancor but Bryna still felt the guilt.

  He drained his cup. “Finish your food. We’ll wait until dark to seek our help.”

  ***

  The streets of Rome were no less crowded after sunset than they were at the height of the day, perhaps even more congested. Bryna did not object as Jared gripped her hand, certain that if she let go, she would be crushed in the throng of people.

  He followed first one street than another, twisting and turning through narrow alley ways and broader lanes. There was little light to see by, the moon and stars being practically obliterated by the height of the tenement buildings. It did not stop Jared. He walked with a surety of knowing exactly where he was going.

  “Here we are,” he said beneath his breath.

  Bryna looked at the large wooden door set in a high stone wall. She reached out, felt the smooth, cold marble of the lintel. Simultaneously, she was jolted by the coldness within Jared. With a brisk rap of his knuckles, he knocked three times on the door.

  After a long few minutes, a small, hinged door set at eye level creaked open. “What is your business?” demanded a voice, coarse with age.

  “I must see your master at once.” Jared spoke without hesitation. Even, she thought, with authority.

  “It is late.” The voice faltered a hint of question in his voice. “My master is abed.”

  Jared’s voice gentled. “Dionysius, open the door.”

  A lamp flickered to life behind the door. Bryna could make out a pair of red rimmed eyes ringed with folds of wrinkles. The eyes widened, accompanied by a choked gasp.

  The door flew open, the light from the lamp flooding the entryway. A wizened old man, not unlike the troll Bryna had envisioned, stepped forward. Dressed in a simple, but finely woven tunic of blue, he clutched a gray blanket around his shoulders. He held the oil lamp in his hand close to their faces. Bryna turned away from the glare but looked quickly back when the old man began to cry.

  “It is you! You’ve come back!” he choked out, stumbling awkwardly toward them. Jared reached out a hand to steady the man. A smile curved the servant’s lips. “Master Lucien, you’ve come home.”

  ***

  Bryna wavered in the nebulous state between wakefulness and sleep unsure really which she had been doing since she now found herself staring at an intricate painting of some Roman god cavorting on the ceiling above her head. It was an unusual god, one with two faces. A very appropriate visage she thought, for a liar. Bitterness burning her throat, she rolled over and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  The first rays of morning filtered in between the wooden shutters. In the light, she saw what she hadn’t been able to the night before, a room of modest size, richly appointed with the wealth of a Roman. A small table of polished wood sat along one wall with a bronze bowl and matching pitcher arranged perfectly in the middle. Rich tapestries of purple and vibrant red lined the walls. The bed itself was intricately carved cypress with pedestals capped in tortoise shell. Absently, she stroked the soft, woolen blanket she had tossed aside, and thought about the previous night.

  A silent Jared had greeted the butler who openly wept and showed no inhibition in embracing Master Lucien. Another Hebrew name? No, it had the feel of aloofness, of inherent superiority. The same traits Jared possessed. The same arrogance she had experienced at the hands of her Roman masters. Her hand fisted in the coverlet. How could she have been so blind?

  “Your pardon, mistress.”

  Bryna shook off her dazed thoughts, and swung her attention to a slender girl with sable hair, large brown eyes and rosy cheeks who stood in the arched doorway.

  The girl smiled tentatively as she entered the room. On her hip she balanced a wooden tray holding several golden plates filled with assorted sliced fruits, small round loaves of bread and several wedges of cheese.

  “I hope I did not awaken you,” she said, placing the tray on a small chest next to the bed. “Master Lucien bid me to bring you food to break your fast.”

  Giving orders was something Jared was very good at. “And where might Master Lucien be?”

  The girl’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the stern tone of Bryna’s question. “I could not say, Mistress.”

  “Do not call me that.” When the girl looked questioningly at her, Bryna sighed, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I am no one’s Mistress. I know it is customary for a slave. . .”

  The girl laughed. “I am not a slave. I am free born although my parents are both emancipated.”

  “Eman...” She struggled with the word.

  “Emancipated,” finished the girl. “They once were slaves but were given their freedom and now serve their patron, Flavian.”

  Bryna raised a skeptical brow. Small difference to her way of thinking. “Even so, please call me Bryna.”

  The girl inclined her head.
“I am Judith. Master Lucien has instructed me to see to your needs.”

  Bryna folded her arms across her chest, raised one brow. “Master Lucien can go straight to hell.”

  Judith laughed again the twinkle in her blue eyes fueling Bryna’s irritation. “He said that such would be your response and instructed me to answer that he had already been there. Now please eat while I prepare your bath.”

  With a small growl of frustration, Bryna snatched a grape from the plate.

  An hour later her stomach was pleasantly full and she was soaking in a sunken pool of hot water. Bryna closed her eyes, let her head fall back to rest on the rim. If only the warm rose scented water could ease the tumult in her mind as easily as it eased the aches from her body.

  He’d lied. Jared had lied as he lied in all things. The arrogant Roman dared to accuse her of the vilest of betrayals while he hid his own true self beneath a mask of victim. Her heart clenched. If he’d lied about all of this, then the tender love they’d made, the concern he’d shown her, the gentleness, the understanding they had forged was all a lie.

  Bryna blinked away the tears burning her eyes when Judith returned and with skilled hands, washed her hair, massaging her scalp with scented oils. Finishing, Judith wrapped her hair in a linen towel, holding up a similar one for Bryna to step into.

  Bryna numbly allowed the girl to do her work. With quick efficiency, Judith dried and arranged Bryna’s hair, doing a poor job of hiding her disappointment when Bryna insisted the unruly curls, grown to her shoulders, be simply braided. But Judith did manage to fasten the end with an elaborate gold and emerald ball.

  Bryna stared at her reflection in the polished glass Judith held for her. With one hand she followed the intricate weave of her braid till it came to rest on the ornament. The emerald matched her eyes perfectly. “It is too costly.”

  “Perhaps,” Judith allowed. “But it matches this so well.” Judith clapped her hands. Another servant entered the room carrying a deep green linen dress which she held up for Bryna’s inspection. Judith smiled as Bryna could only stare at it. With the girl’s help, she slipped it over her head, fastening the cloth together at the shoulders with matching gold and emerald clasps.

  Bryna ran her hands down the folds, marveling at the soft texture. “It’s beautiful.”

  “A gift from your husband.”

  Her pleasure flew apart. “I have no need for gifts.” She pushed Judith’s hands away from the lacing of a golden cord about her waist. “You may take it back.”

  Judith’s mouth quirked to the side. “Well, yes, I could. But then what would you wear? Your other clothes have been burned by order of Master Lucian.”

  Her mouth dropped open. The audacity of the man! “Fine,” she answered tightly, holding her arms clear for Judith to continue. “I will wear these Roman clothes. And when we are finished here, I want to see my husband.”

  ***

  Jared paused at the entry to the library, skimmed his hand over the geometric designs embossed on the bronze double doors. As a boy he had spent hours studying the shape and form of the work, copying the interlocking rectangles onto scraps of parchment then thinking up ways to arrange the forms into new and different patterns. A solitary entertainment for a solitary child.

  His stomach bunched into knots. The decision to seek help here—from him—had been a hard one. But the alternative was unacceptable. Baal was much more clever than Jared had given him credit for and was getting dangerously close. Their near escape from the small town was proof of that. He wanted Bryna safe and for that he would do what must be done. Swallowing hard, he rapped on the door.

  “Enter.”

  Jared forced his hands to unfurl from fists and pushed the door open.

  The room was smaller than he remembered. Shelves lined the frescoed walls, every compartment crammed with scrolls stored in leather cylinders and tablets. Writings of the great Greek philosophers Aristotle, Plato, Euclid. Treatises by Homer, by Plutarch, Virgil, Seneca, and even Cicero’s namesake. There were Hebrew texts as well. He knew the contents of each one by heart.

  His gaze fell to the regal man sitting with his back to the door. Stone gray hair cropped close to the scalp, as was the custom among the aristocracy, the nape of his neck bronzed from the sun. A toga of pure white edged in purple was folded artfully over shoulders still broad for a man close to sixty. As he watched, the shoulders straightened. The man rose to his feet and turned.

  Eyes exactly like his own scanned Jared from head to toe, hesitating at the banded scars on his wrists. Jared stood impassively, a clenched fist at his side the only sign of the tumult of emotions that rose inside him.

  “It has been a long time, son.”

  Jared nodded curtly. “Some would consider ten years a long time. Others might not think it long enough.”

  Flavian sighed heavily. “For myself ten years is much too long to be without one’s son.” He motioned Jared into another sedan chair before taking his seat, then pinned him with a steady look. “I have grieved for you.”

  “As I have grieved for my mother.” Jared gritted his teeth against the sorrow that flashed in his father’s eyes.

  “As have I,” replied Flavian. “It was a great tragedy.”

  “It was murder,” Jared said tightly. “My mother was murdered by Rome.”

  Flavian spoke in measured tones. “I did not send those soldiers, Lucien.”

  Jared leaned forward, fisted his hand on the desk. “You could have stopped them.”

  Flavian met his accusing gaze, golden eyes glinting. “Of course I could have. Had I known my wife had taken our only son into the midst of a zealot camp!”

  “Zealots!” he snapped back. “It was a simple Hebrew village filled with old men, women, and children.”

  Flavian suddenly looked very tired. He rubbed a blue veined hand over his eyes. “Always it is the same argument. The same accusations, the same blame. It is as though you are still a youth of fifteen, filled with anger, rebellion. Rejecting your teachers, your place in society.”

  Jared shot to his feet began to pace in front of the desk. “My place in society? I have no place in society save that which I’ve carved for myself.”

  “And you have done well.”

  He stopped his pacing, narrowed his gaze at his father. Flavian merely shrugged his shoulders. “Do you think I’d not keep an eye out for you? You are my son. A Roman citizen.”

  Jared pressed his lips together. Flavian had always held Rome up as the answer to any problem. “Your law may claim me as a citizen, but your fine Roman society does not. In their eyes I am an outcast, an aberration.” He leaned his hands on the desk edge, glared into his father’s stern face. “To them, I am nothing but a dirty, rotten Jew.”

  Flavian’s expression hardened, anger sharpened his voice. “How dare you? Your mother was a Jew, and she was all that was good and beautiful in this world. And—” He didn’t break eye contact. “—I loved her.”

  Guilt reared its head at his father’s admonishment. Of course his mother had been beautiful. And warm, generous and full of life and love for her husband and child. She had been proud of her heritage, faced the prejudice of her husband’s world with grace. Jared swallowed past the tightness in his throat. His mother, at least, had known where she belonged.

  He never had.

  Flavian leaned back in his chair, his aristocratic features tired, drawn. “With her death, I ceased to live.”

  Well that was one point he and his father could agree upon. Flavian had wrapped himself up so tight in his own sorrow that he’d turned away from his brokenhearted son. It was grief mixed with emotional abandonment that had become the mortar and brick for the wall Jared had built around his heart. He’d lived his life safe and secure behind that barrier, unwilling to be hurt like that again. But he hadn’t come here to discuss the past.

  “I have need of your help,” he said at last, unable and unwilling to hide the bitterness in his tone.

  Flavian
sighed. “And you shall have it. You are my son.”

  ***

  The beauty of the lush greenery and flowering plants filling the courtyard stood in sharp contrast to the wide, hard marble rim of the fountain edge beneath her and the dull pain in her heart. Bryna wished she could find peace in the melodic trickling of water spouting from a trio of marble fish leaping in frozen unison from the center of a huge, round fountain. The fountain should have been relaxing. Instead her nerves were stretched to their limit.

  Judith had told her that Lucien-Jared—had instructed she should wait for him here. And she had been waiting. Almost an hour which gave her more time to think.

  Jared had lied.

  Bryna tossed a pebble into the fountain, watched the ripples fan out across the water’s surface. Not so unlike the degrees of trust it had taken for her to come to believe in him. Enough to believe he would help her find Bran. Enough to give him her body and, she thought numbly, part of her heart in the process.

  Perhaps he hadn’t had a choice, her conscience prodded. A slave bent to the will of his master. Perhaps Jared had had no choice but to lie about his identity. She shook the excuse away. No. Despite the chains he wore, Jared had never been subjugated. Free of his owners, he had had a choice and he had chosen not to tell her he was a despised Roman. She cursed beneath her breath.

  “The clothes become you.”

  Her gut tightened. She wanted to act unaffected, but felt the heat coursing up her neck. The sight of him leaning against one of the portico columns, muscled arms crossed over the wide expanse of his chest did nothing to aid her composure. An aura of raw power surrounded him, shimmered with brilliant effect. An impression of deep hurt filtered through the effect. She blinked and it was gone.