The Patrician

by Joan Kayse

  Jared looked just as he had on the day he’d come to Coeus’ taverna, prosperous, self-assured, a man in control. He had changed into a tunic of purest white, trimmed with interlocking rectangles of purple embroidery, which only served to deepen the bronze of his skin. Fine leather boots covered his feet. His hair was bound with a gold band and the scars on his wrists hidden by wide, golden bracelets embossed with eagles. Around his neck, looking out of place was the small, star medallion.“You could pass for a princess.”

  Her head shot up to his intense, considering gaze. It aggravated Bryna that his compliment pleased her. But she could not let it threaten her resolve. She straightened her shoulders. “I wonder if it is as easy for a barbarian to pose as a princess as it is for a Roman to pose as a slave?” she asked coolly.

  Jared pushed away from the column, walked around the fountain. He stopped beside her and peered into the flowing water. “I know of no Roman who would have spent months in chains, feeling the bite of the lash for the sake of pretense.”

  “Who then would a lowly slave know that owns such a fine house in the midst of Rome itself?”

  His jaw tightened. “A man named Flavian Antoninus Septimus.”

  She pressed her lips together before replying. “And why would this Roman risk giving sanctuary to fugitives?”

  He gave her a sideways look. “Because he is my father.”

  Bryna closed her eyes. His father? Could there be a bigger fool than she? “So you lied about being Hebrew?”

  “No,” he shot back, his gold eyes glittering, “My mother was Hebrew.”

  Confusion softened the sharp edges of her ire even as he kept his silence, staring at the water. She crossed her arms, wanted to ignore the waves of pain pulsing from him with an energy ten times that of her own hurt. Damn her sight for coming to life now when she wanted, needed, to be angry with him. But looking at his dejected posture and seeing the misery in his eyes she wanted only to comfort him. With a sigh of resignation, she grasped his hand.

  The warmth of Bryna’s hand on his skin was like a soothing balm on the raw surface of his deepest wound. Jared had never talked about his feelings, the hurt that ran so deep even he had lost sight of its beginning. Not to his father or his uncle, his family, not even to Damon, who had been there through it all. But he found he wanted to tell Bryna. “I haven’t seen him for ten years, since the summer I turned sixteen.” He shrugged. “It was a mutual arrangement that suited the thick headed youth I was perfectly. I hated my father and the Roman heritage with which he poisoned me.”

  “Youths often clash with their fathers,” she said quietly.

  “Were that it was that simple.” He struggled inside his head, trying to fit the pieces together enough to make sense. “My mother was Hebrew. A merchant’s daughter who happened to catch the eye of a Roman scholar, come to visit the libraries of Alexandria. They wed against the wishes of her family and the objections of his peers. Less than a year later, I was born. We lived here, in Rome, in this house, where Father could still carry out the academic duties of building a private library for the Emperor.” He chanced a glance at Bryna, but she was staring into the water, as if watching the scene unfold. He shook off the notion that her mysterious sight was showing her anything past what he chose to share.

  “Mother held her head high, ignored the social slights, the whispered insults. She thought she could protect me from the ridicule, but I brought home too many black eyes and split lips for that lie to stand.”

  Bryna nodded, met his gaze. He saw no pity in her eyes, but an unsettling understanding that caused his heart to stutter. “Mother’s worry was too much for Father. He convinced the Emperor he could be of better use compiling texts from Alexandria and so we returned to Egypt. Mother’s family was ecstatic to have her close to home, so they tolerated her Roman husband and accepted her half-blood son into their lives.”

  He paused, took a deep breath. “She was determined things would be different for me. Father allowed her to teach me about her faith, her God, her holy scriptures. And so when I turned thirteen it was natural that she wanted me to perform the ritual of entry as a member of the temple. Father refused. He told her he had tolerated her instruction, as he believed in the value of education. But his son would not be worshiping one God and ignoring the gods of his familia.”

  He rubbed his temple, felt the familiar thickness of the scar, the painful memories. “They had a terrible argument. They thought I slept but I heard every word. I went to sleep convinced all would be well the following morning. But that night Mother came, roused me out of bed. We journeyed to visit her father in Judea. She told me father would follow us. The night before I was to read in the temple, my grandfather’s village was raided by a patrol of Roman soldiers.” The lump in his throat grew. “Mother was killed trying to defend the villagers.”

  Bryna’s soft gasp rose above the noise of the water splashing into the pool. The knot in his chest twisted tighter, against any further revelation. These were only the facts. Facts that he’d not spoken of since he’d left Rome.

  “You blame your father?”

  Gods. “Yes. . .no.” Twelve years of guilt and grief hammered against the wall he’d built around his heart. “I blame myself. My mother died because of me.” Jared pulled his hand away, pressed his fingers against the hot moisture building in his eyes. The admission had opened a crack in the barrier and he scrambled to stem the flow of emotion. The only way he’d survived these past years had been to maintain rigid control.

  The soft touch of Bryna’s hand along the line of his jaw snapped his eyes open. She was less than a breath away.

  “Your mother died because she believed in something important. Important to her, important for her son. Your father did not realize what it meant and for that he blamed himself more heavily than you ever could.” She gave him a sad smile. “Facing you with that knowledge was more painful than he could bear and so he distanced himself to save you from the deeper hurt.”

  There was truth in what she said, but Jared couldn’t just release the deep ache in his soul. It was not that simple. His penance was not complete. And never would be. A sudden desire for forgiveness welled within him. From himself, from his father.

  From Bryna.

  She made to move her hand, but he caught it in his, brushing his lips across the tender skin of her inner wrist. Gratitude filled him when she did not pull away. He needed her warmth, her strength. Desire flared in those luminous green eyes, turning them into the deep green of a forest. She leaned into him and caught his mouth in a kiss. His sharp intake of breath dissolved into a low moan of pleasure. She tasted of honey and sunshine. Of hope. “Bryna,” he breathed against her lips. “I am not one of them. I am not a Roman.”

  She eased away, a delectable pink blush rising across her cheeks. “Are you not, Jared? Or is it Lucien who is?”

  He allowed her to slip from his grasp, braced himself for the judgment that always came. Bryna’s rejection he knew, would be the worst of all.

  Bryna wrapped her arms around her middle, her expression thoughtful. “I have experienced firsthand that the Romans use a very shallow scale to determine a person’s worth. Be honest, Jared, you judge yourself with the same measure. You are more like them then you want to believe. Nothing will change until you come to terms with your birthright and see the value in who you are.”

  His gut clenched. No one had ever seen past the lines of his heritage. He’d had to fight for every ounce of respect, every concession, everything he’d ever accomplished. All that he possessed had been gained despite who he was. What he was. How could a barbarian understand that?

  A shallow scale.

  His gaze shot to hers. The disappointment and sadness in them jarred him to the core. Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked through the polished columns of the colonnade into the house.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Toss it again.”

  Bryna smiled at the curly headed child holding out his
hands. How many times could one small boy chase a toy?

  “Come on,” he said again, hopping back and forth on chubby legs.

  “Jacob! Stop bothering Mistress Bryna,” scolded Judith. Jacob paused long enough to stick his tongue out at his eldest sister before running after the ball.

  Judith adjusted the basket of apples on her lap, saying over her shoulder, “Mother, you’re raising a heathen.”

  Judith’s mother was a robust woman with a broad face who appeared quite youthful. The only sign that Esther was mother to six children was the handful of tiny lines that crinkled in the corner of her eyes when she smiled. She bent over the compact stone hearth, poked at the roasting pigeons before answering. “He’s a baby yet, doesn’t understand what being a heathen entails.” Her smile encompassed Bryna. “Though I do agree his energy might be more than the Mistress counted on before she joined us.”

  Bryna returned Esther’s smile, tossed the ball to a squealing Jacob. She was glad she had won out over Judith’s objections that a Mistress of the household had no place in the kitchens. It took her mind off of infuriating men.

  Jared’s tale of his mother’s death had torn at her heart. She had seen the devastation in his eyes, felt the anguish, the turmoil of the little boy whose life had disintegrated in the space of a moment. It was wrong that he had carried the burden of responsibility alone all these years. Jared’s father should be flogged for such indifference.

  His vulnerability had touched her and she had wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms, make him forget the pain. But then the impressions had hit her. Dismissive, derisive, judgmental. He still thought of her as a barbarian and it hurt more than she wanted to admit, more than it should. When it was all said and done, his recent time spent in slavery aside, he was still Roman.

  Something soft brushed against her leg. She looked down at a large orange cat. It sat proudly on its haunches, looking up at her with self-assured authority. “What is this?” she asked, intrigued by the furry creature.

  Esther glanced over. “Oh, that is just one of the cats who keeps the mice in control.”

  Bryna stroked the feline’s head, delighted with the deep rumbling from its stout body and cheek rubbing against her hand. A sense of peace flashed in her mind.

  “Seems she likes you,” chuckled Esther, “She hisses at everyone else.”

  “Does she have a name?” asked Bryna.

  Judith wrinkled her nose. “Just cat.”

  Bryna lifted the feline into her lap. “I shall call her Cuini. It means queen in my language.” Seemingly giving approval of her new name, Cuini dipped her head and rubbed it against Bryna’s chin.

  “Will Master Lucien be dining tonight?” asked Judith as she handed her mother the sliced apples. Bryna shifted uncomfortably under their questioning looks. Of course they would ask her, they thought she was his wife.

  “My son has some pressing matters to attend to.”

  All eyes turned to the man standing in the doorway. Even if she had not noticed all the servants shifting into postures of deference, she would know this man as Flavian Antoninus Septimus. He carried himself with the same self-assurance and

  command that Jared did.

  With the barest nod of his head, Flavian directed everyone to leave. Esther dampened the fire to protect the fowl, shooed Judith and Jacob out the door. As he passed Flavian, Jacob dropped the ball at his feet. The Roman scooped the toy up, tossing it underhand to the little boy. Jacob smiled as Flavian tousled his hair then scampered to catch up with his mother.

  Bryna would have followed suit, but Flavian stopped her with a raised hand. “I would speak with you.”

  She froze, all of her senses instantly sharpened, wary, watchful. Cuini jumped to the floor and hissed at Flavian before disappearing behind the oven. Bryna braced herself. He was a Roman, she a barbarian—a slave.

  Flavian seemed to sense her distress and assumed a more casual stance, bracing a hand on Esther’s worktable. “You know who I am?”

  Bryna nodded slowly. “You are Jared’s father.”

  Surprise flitted across his features. “So, he uses the name my Shifra gave him?” He smiled, but it was a smile laced with sadness. Sadness as deep as Jared’s. “Yes, I am Jared’s father, although when he lived in my house, we called him Lucien. I am Antonius Septimus Flavian. I would like it very much if you called me Flavian.”

  “Your pardon, sir, but I am not use to calling a Roman anything but Master.” Bryna bit her lip, uncertain how to proceed.

  Flavian nodded appreciatively. “You speak with honesty. That is good. Lucien,” he paused. “I mean Jared, has told me of the circumstances of your journey.”

  Fear pricked at her, but she kept her gaze fixed on his, determined not to let it overwhelm her. “Then you know that I am a slave?”

  “As is Jared.”

  Apprehension gripped her. “But he is your son. Surely that would protect him from the authorities?”

  “Sadly, no. In the eyes of Roman law, Jared is still a slave, legally bought, the property of his master.”

  “He is a Roman citizen. Does that not safeguard his life?” She tried but couldn’t control the anxiety in her voice. As a barbarian, she had expected nothing from Rome, but she had taken comfort that Jared would be safe.

  “I’m afraid not.” The lines around Flavian’s eyes deepened. He sighed and rubbed his hands together. “Many years ago my influence could have assured his safety. That was before I married a Hebrew woman.” He glanced up at her, his tawny eyes every bit as penetrating as his son’s. “He tells me you and he are married.”

  She lifted her chin a notch. “Only as a ruse to avoid capture, but he insists it is binding since a priest of the Hebrews performed the rite. Surely you would protest your fine Roman son wedding a heathen?”

  Flavian smiled ruefully. “At one time in my life I would have been appalled.” His gaze shifted out to the garden before returning to her. “Then you meet the one who is your destiny, the other half that makes you whole. The Greeks call them soul mates. And you know it makes no difference their origins.”

  She wanted to point out that Jared held no tender feelings for her, but held her tongue. Her own safety might well rely on this Roman’s good wishes.

  Flavian blinked, looked at her sheepishly. “Well, I only came to meet my new daughter-in-law, to welcome you to my home, to Lucien’s home.” He paused, looked over at her. “Lucien has been lost for a long time. He holds resentment and guilt close to his heart. Too close, perhaps, to see past it, to the possibilities of the future. I don’t want him to make the same mistakes I did.”

  With that Flavian inclined his head in her direction and left Bryna wondering how two men could be so alike.

  ***

  Bryna let out a huff of exasperation and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was useless. She could not sleep and blamed Jared and his whole Roman world for it.

  Flavian’s visit kept playing over and over in her head. The man was a patrician through and through, and there was every reason not to trust him. He could be lying about Jared’s being in danger despite his citizenship. After all, what good was it to a Roman if the law did not favor you? But underlying Flavian’s natural authority she had perceived the same intense desolation that plagued Jared.

  She wound a woolen shawl tight around her shoulders in a futile effort to stop the chill that gripped her. Flavian’s implication that she could somehow impact his son’s cold heart was beyond belief. Her husband had not even shown himself at dinner, leaving her anxious and alone to face his father and the household. She was nothing more to him than a barbarian, a means to find the persons who had done him injury. And that hurt more than she wanted to admit. A soft knock sounded at the door.

  “Mistress?” an anxious voice called through the door.

  Bryna glanced warily at the portal.

  “Mistress, it is Dionysius. Please, I need your help.”

  Flavian’s doorkeeper needed he
r help?

  “Please, Mistress. It is Master Lucien.”

  A nervous skitter ran down her spine. She hurried to the door, lifted the latch. The little elderly man stood in the hall wringing his hands, his clouded eyes filled with anxiety.

  She scanned the hallway before meeting his gaze. “What is this about Jared?”

  Dionysius’ voice quivered. “Please come. Master Lucien needs help.”

  Bryna’s heart clenched. “Then call his father.”

  Dionysius shook his head. “No, Master Lucien would not want his father to see. Please come.”

  Fear and worry won out over annoyance. “Take me to him.”

  She followed Dionysius down the hallway, the feeble light from the servant’s lamp doing little to dispel the darkness or the growing unease knotting her stomach. He led the way into the kitchen, holding a gnarled finger to his lips as they eased around two sleeping servants then continued out into the courtyard. Having learned the lesson of treachery, she planted her feet at the beginning of the path and refused to move. “I will not go another step until you explain what this is about.”

  Dionysius hobbled back, took her by the hand, clearly irritated. “Now, Mistress. The master hasn’t much time.”

  Hadn’t much time for what? Pushing aside her doubts, she followed the servant to the rear of the garden.

  Dionysius came to a stop next to a semi-circle of flowering shrubs. He bent over slightly, catching his breath. Bryna glanced around. “There is nothing here.”

  Between wheezes, Dionysius pointed to a stone bench partially hidden along the wall. Bryna took the lamp from him and thrust it into the shadows.

  ***

  Jared squinted against the flickering light, cursing as the wavering image of Bryna frowned down at him. What use was it to spend four hours enjoying his father’s vast store of wine and beer trying to forget the little barbarian witch only to be plagued with her apparition? Damn, even drunk he couldn’t escape the spirit, the fire in those ungodly beautiful emerald eyes.