“Drop the flap!” Fortunada said, although the cloth panel would do little good against an attack. She had no weapon. No way to protect herself or her maid.
Jana remained motionless.
Fortunada wrenched the fabric out of Jana’s hand and pulled the other woman away from the opening. “Escape,” said Fortunada as the beginnings of a plan came to her. The tent was staked at the four corners. They could easily slip under the rear wall and sneak away in the confusion. “There are woods nearby. We will hide until morning and then make our way back to Rome.”
“No.” Jana pulled out of Fortunada’s grasp. “They will search the woods and find us.”
“As your mistress, I order you from this tent.”
“I am no longer a slave,” Jana said, her voice so calm that it chilled Fortunada to her very core. “I will not do as you say, not in these, my last moments on earth.”
“Fear has stolen your senses.” From beyond came screams of terror and cries of pain. The tent remained untouched, but for how long? They had a moment, no more. “Those men out there will burn this tent over our heads. Is that how you want to die?”
“There are some things worse than death.” Jana turned to Fortunada. “Go. Save yourself if you can. Perhaps as a patrician you will be ransomed. I will not be misused again. Never again will I endure what I did before being sold to you. I would welcome death first.”
“The gods save us all.” Fortunada gripped Jana by the wrist, pulling her to the back of the tent. “Those are brave words. But I will not allow you to die. We will escape and survive. You have my word upon that. I will protect you. Now, go!” She wrenched the maid down. With a single backward glance, Jana slid underneath the tent and was gone.
Feet first, Fortunada slithered out. Just as her shoulders slipped beyond the canvas wall, a large man wearing a brown tunic and carrying a heavy club stalked into the tent. At his side dangled a short sword. For a moment, they both stopped. Their gazes met. He rushed forward, and Fortunada gave one last push into the night. Kneeling, Jana waited. Fortunada pulled Jana to her feet.
It was too late. A large arm reached out from under the tent and grabbed the maid’s ankle. Jana screamed and thrashed. The man held fast and pulled Jana away. Fortunada clasped both of her maid’s hands in her own and pulled in the opposite direction. Though her grip was fierce, the man was too strong, and he ripped Jana from Fortunada’s grasp.
Still holding Jana by the ankle, the man’s head emerged from under the wall of the tent. Aiming at his misshapen nose, Fortunada kicked. Blood exploded across his face. Fortunada felt the snap of bone and cartilage underfoot. With a curse, the man let go. Jana tumbled to the ground.
Even though it felt like she had a boulder attached to her wrist, Fortunada held tight to the sobbing maid and ran. Her legs ached and her lungs burned. Their only chance for escape was to make it to the trees and hide.
When she toppled forward, all the air rushed from Fortunada’s lungs. She gasped, unable to draw breath. A weight pressed her down, pinning her to the ground. She tried to claw forward. Jana lay on Fortunada’s back with the marauder atop the whole heap.
From behind, the man grabbed Fortunada by the hair and pulled her to her feet. She screamed, the pain searing, as flesh and hair ripped free. She twisted, kicked, and tried to run. Even though the brute held Fortunada in one hand and Jana in the other, his grip never loosened.
Physically, she could not defeat him—mentally, ah, that was where she had power that the marauder did not. Or so she hoped. Fortunada stopped struggling.
“Let us go,” she snapped. It was a weak order, she knew, but all she had. “And I will try to have your life spared.”
“You want to bargain with me? You are in no position to do anything beyond beg.”
“I am an aristocrat, a patrician, a princess of Illyria. To do me any harm is to sign your own death warrant.”
“I know who you are, Lady Fortunada,” the man said.
Disbelief shocked her into momentary silence, and she turned to look at the bandit. Blood ran from both of his nostrils.
“If you know who I am, then you know that you must release me and my maid.”
“She is not your maid,” said the man, “not anymore. From now on, she belongs to me.”
“No,” Jana screamed. “I will not submit. Not again. Not ever.” She pulled the marauder’s sword from his scabbard. With a wildly arcing slice, she opened the man’s bicep.
Fortunada had known nothing of Jana’s life before she came into her service. To be taken by bandits, ill-used, and then sold into slavery was a common enough story. Those who survived this night would most likely suffer a similar fate. All the same, what was Jana trying to do?
“Bitch,” the man snarled as he threw Jana to the ground.
Jana stood and held the sword out. The blade trembled. “I am so sorry,” she said.
“I am certain you are sorry, missy. Now put down the sword before you hurt yourself.”
“I am so sorry, my lady,” said Jana. “You were good to me.”
“No, Jana. Please,” said Fortunada. Her words were too late. The maid turned the sword on herself and drove the blade into her chest. Like a black flower, blood bloomed on her dun-colored tunic. Jana staggered and fell to her back. Glassy-eyed, she stared at the stars.
Chapter 15
Baro
Baro woke with the warm scent of Fortunada surrounding him. Her cream-colored palla covered him, and he assumed that had she draped it over him as he slept. She cared for him still, and the thought buoyed his mood. It stayed with him for the briefest instant. His pulse began to thrum as cries of alarm and calls for water pierced the night. Like a hand, heat pressed him down. White tendrils of smoke clung to the roof of the litter. The shouts for water were cut short by screams of terror. Baro recognized with horror the sickening sucking noise of steel being thrust into flesh. His eyes burned and watered. Bits of white ash and red-hot sparks floated in from the high windows.
The caravan was under attack, and his litter had been set alight. There was no other explanation.
Wrapping Fortunada’s palla over his nose and mouth, Baro dropped to the cabin floor. The air was cleaner there and he could see. He needed to escape but had few options. The door stood to his right. To open it and tumble into the night—both blind and sick—would prove as deadly as staying in the litter. To his left sat the other bench and a window, too small for him to fit through.
He heard a horse coming in at a gallop and a woman’s scream.
Was it Fortunada?
He could not comprehend anything foul happening to her, yet once the thought entered his mind, he thought of nothing else. If escape through neither window nor door was possible, then Baro would have to make his own way out.
Setting his back on one wall, he kicked at the other with his good leg. The wood did not buckle. He kicked again, harder. The wood splintered and gave. It was all Baro needed. Bracing both feet against the base of the bench, Baro drove his shoulder into the crack. Sweat gathered at his hairline and dripped down his face. His heartbeat echoed with one word. Escape.
The wood gave a little more. Flipping over, Baro kicked with both feet. Ignoring the pain that filled his injured thigh, he kicked again. The board broke.
Drawn by the fresh, clean air, flames licked down the wall. Baro pulled the loosened plank free before wrenching away the one above and the other below. Splinters gouged his palm and tore into his fingers. He slithered through the opening, and rolling out of the litter, Baro landed on his shoulder. On hands and feet and ass, he scooted backward. A moment later, the roof collapsed, and a thousand evil sparks shot into the night sky.
All around him were scenes of destruction. Carts set aflame. Horses and mules lay on the ground—either dead or writhing in pain. Panicked and screaming people ran in all directions. Women were dragged away,
men slaughtered where they stood, and children gathered into groups. Nearby, the caravan leader, Milo, lifted a sword and charged a marauder. This attack was cut short—along with his life—as a marauder’s blade was driven into his belly.
Baro looked for Fortunada. At the door to the singular tent that had not yet been burned, a plain-looking woman in a long, shapeless gown stared into the night. Another woman approached and pulled the first woman away. The tent flap fluttered shut. No, it was not just any woman. It had been Fortunada.
Before Baro could move, a man wearing a frayed tunic and dented helmet came in at a run. He held a short sword high, the tip aimed at Baro’s neck. He had no time for this man’s pathetic attempt at an attack. What he did need was the sword the man held. Baro allowed the bandit to come close. Closer. So close that he saw the reflected firelight dance upon the blade.
With a quick step, Baro moved aside. At the same time, he delivered a two-handed punch to the marauder’s back. The other man stumbled forward, holding tight to the sword.
From behind, Baro kicked the man into the ground. Stepping upon the marauder’s sword hand, he wrenched his head to the side. The bandit’s neck broke with a series of pops. Baro picked up the sword and ran to the tent where he had seen Fortunada.
Just in front of him, a large man with a club opened the tent’s flap. Looking over his shoulder once, the bandit slipped inside. Fortunada would be trapped with the attacker. The sour taste of terror filled Baro’s mouth. Despite the throbbing pain in his thigh, he ran faster. He entered the tent only a moment after the man. There was a single bed, still made, next to a table and chair. At the back of the tent sat a small brazier that threw flames into the already fire-filled night. There was no Fortunada. No maid. No women crying, begging for their lives or fighting for their virtue. No brute who needed to be slain.
In fact, aside from Baro, the tent was empty. He had not miscalculated, had he? No, Baro had gone to the right tent. It was the only one not alight. Scanning his surroundings again, he noticed that the canvas near the rear floor sagged.
Had Fortunada escaped? Pressing his ear to the back wall, Baro listened. On the other side he heard voices—female voices—crying, sobbing. Along with a singular male voice, full of spiteful humor.
Using his newly acquired sword, Baro sliced open a door and stepped through.
On the ground was the maid, dead by her own hand, if his guess was right. The marauder had Fortunada in his grasp, pressing her to his chest. Tears flowed down Fortunada’s cheeks.
Baro would dry those tears.
From behind, Baro approached the man. He gave no warning. There was no honor in delivering this death. It was murder, plain and simple. Baro did not care. Aiming his sword at the base of the man’s skull, he drove the tip through flesh and muscle and bone. The man’s knees buckled, and he fell down. His eternal soul was burning in the fire of the River Styx before he even knew that he was dead.
Suddenly free from the man’s hold, Fortunada began to run. Casting a single stricken glance over her shoulder, she took a few steps more, paused, and looked again. He could only imagine what she saw. Her attacker was dead at Baro’s feet. Behind him, the camp was nothing more than flames and ash. She was wise to run. In the trees she could hide. Perhaps the local legionnaire garrison had seen the fire and were on their way.
“Baro.” Fortunada ran and threw herself into his arms with such force he stumbled back. “I thought you were dead,” she sobbed.
He had no time to enjoy the feel of her in his arms. “Come,” he said, placing her on the ground. “We must get away. There are too many men for me to fight them all.”
Hand in hand, they started for the closest copse of trees.
“What were they after, do you think?” Fortunada asked as they ran.
Her question gave him pause. As a patrician, Fortunada had been brought up behind the high walls of a villa. Wedded and bedded in her teens, she knew little of the world. Could she not have imagined the man’s vile plan? No. She was an astute woman who never failed to speak her mind—at times to Baro’s chagrin. He would be bluntly honest with her now.
“You know what they wanted. To rape and steal and kill. They probably attack caravans all the time, reselling slaves and taking wealthy passengers hostage.”
“I know all that,” said Fortunada. “What did they want from me, do you think? That man who came into my tent knew my name. I wonder why.”
“Your maid must have spoken your name aloud,” Baro said, giving her the most reasonable explanation.
“I do not recall her having said such,” said Fortunada.
Baro was not entirely convinced, either. “Come,” he said. “We must move quickly.” They began to run, and then ran even faster—until they were less than one hundred paces to the tree line.
From the shadowy reaches of the forest, a man on horseback emerged. He was no legionnaire. Wearing a tattered tunic that could have started out as any color but was now dirt brown, the man had long black hair that flowed down his back. Following were a half-dozen men, all armed and just as dangerous looking as the fellow upon the horse. Baro stopped and began to walk backward. He glanced over his shoulder. Another dozen men came in from behind.
“Where are you going, friend?” asked the man on horseback.
Without any need to do a calculation, Baro knew he was outnumbered. Any fight that was nearly twenty to one never went in the favor of the lone fighter, no matter the circumstances. This situation was far from ideal. Baro was injured. The men who surrounded him all held their swords out and at the ready. The question, then, became, how many could Baro kill before the marauders tore him apart? And more important, how would Fortunada pay for his suicidal bravery?
No, neither force nor violence would serve him this time. He needed another stratagem. “I am just out for an evening stroll,” he said. As he hoped, his voice came out calm, and his tone remained even.
The man threw back his head and laughed. “A stroll?” He leaned his forearms on the pommel. “Lovely evening for a stroll, is it not? Who is it you have with you?”
Baro pulled Fortunada closer. “My wife.”
The man on horseback straightened up. “Are you sure she is your wife and not a lady you just met during your travels?”
“Am I sure of my wife? Of course I am.”
“What is her name, then?”
Baro hesitated. What if these men were specifically looking for Fortunada? It seemed unlikely. Her silken dress, though torn and soot covered, denoted her as a person of quality. The bandits were probably hoping to get a ransom out of a woman with some family wealth. Was it a risk he was willing to take?
No, it was not.
“Piss off,” Baro said.
“Piss off? That is an ugly name for a beautiful woman. Do you know what I think?” the man on horseback asked. “You are lying to me. You know what I hate most?”
“A late-night stroll?” asked Baro.
“A liar,” said the man on horseback, “followed by someone with a smart mouth.”
“That was my second guess.”
“Get the woman and kill the man.” The bandit turned his mount around and began to amble back to the forest.
Knees soft, Baro twirled his sword around his wrist—memorizing the faces of all the marauders he should slay first. The large man with the balding head was nearest. Then he would take on the fellow at his left. After that, the rest of the bandits would be upon him, and there would be nothing for Baro to do beyond strike and try not to die.
“Baro.” Fortunada spoke for the first time. “There are too many of them for even you to fight.”
The man on horseback stopped. “Baro?” he asked, turning his mount around. “Are you Baro the Equestrian?”
“I am.”
Poking one another in the ribs with bony elbows, the marauders murmured, “Baro the Eq
uestrian? Is that really him? I would have recognized him if the light were better.”
The man on horseback dismounted. Extending his arm, he walked forward. “Baro the Equestrian, I cannot tell you what an honor it is to meet you. I have long followed your career.”
He allowed the man to grasp his wrist. It was a sign of friendship or at least respect. Though Baro felt neither, he knew that this man held all the power, and it behooved him to develop as much affinity as he might.
“I thank you for your interest. You have me at more than a slight disadvantage. You know all about me, and I know nothing, not even your name.”
“My name is Dax,” said the man. “I served in the legions. Just like you.” He released his hold of Baro and gestured to the marauders. “Most of these men served with me. We came home to nothing. So we make our way however we can.”
“I suppose we all do,” said Baro. “And speaking of the legions, there certainly are some stationed nearby. You should be on your way before they arrive.”
“Well, then,” said Dax as he strode toward his horse, “we will be off.”
“My wife and I bid you farewell,” said Baro. He wrapped his arm around Fortunada’s waist and drew her to him. Of course, he would survive this hellish night unscathed. He was Baro. It had been foolish of him to worry.
From the saddle, Dax leaned down. “You misunderstand. It is not just my men and I who will be leaving. You and your wife will come with us as well.”
“I have a fight in Novum Comum,” Baro said, keeping his tone amiable. “It is of the greatest importance to my ludus. If you would like, I can make arrangements for you and your men to attend the game.” Fortunada tensed under his touch. Leaning in, he placed a kiss upon her temple.
“I understand the importance of business,” said Dax. “Which is why I must insist that you come with me.”
Chapter 16
Fortunada
Having been forced into a dirty cart hours earlier, Fortunada rode next to Baro. Jostling and bumping, the cart ascended a wooded path. Thick trees rose up, obscuring her view of the darkened sky. A single marauder sat in the driver’s seat and took no notice of them.
The Gladiator's Temptation (Champions of Rome) Page 10