The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  “There’s a slave auction on the Ides,” Marcus told Rhys.

  “You’ll be there, I trust.”

  “Of course.” Marcus attended every auction, buying what slaves the family finances could afford. And earning the contempt of the patrician Romans in Isca when he immediately granted their freedom. Another strike against Marcus as far as his offer for Clara was concerned. No doubt Sempronius Gracchus thought him mad.

  Some of the slaves Marcus freed stayed on at the Aquila farm, working for board and a small wage, but most did not. Financially and socially, the endeavor was a losing proposition. And yet Marcus’s only regret was that he wasn’t rich enough to free every slave brought to the auction stone. Men and women shouldn’t be traded like cattle.

  They approached the fortress. The massive gates stood open, as was common during daylight hours. Isca had been a secure city for two generations. The only threat the two soldiers at guard were likely to encounter was boredom.

  “Marcus Ulpius Aquila, blacksmith,” Marcus told the man who appeared the most alert. “I’ve a delivery for Tribune Valgus.”

  “And your friend?” the man asked, eyeing Rhys.

  “My assistant.”

  The man made a note on a wax tablet and jerked his head, indicating they were free to pass. Inside the gates, the disorder of the village gave way to neat workshops, granaries, and stables. Commander Gracchus’s legendary discipline was evident everywhere. Soldiers went about their business with quiet purpose, streets were empty of debris, and the buildings were in such good repair that they might have been erected yesterday rather than fifty years earlier. Suddenly, Marcus regretted not changing his sooty clothes.

  They approached Gracchus’s residence, an impressive two-story house located in the center of the fortress. Marcus had barely rapped at the door when it swung open. An elderly porter wearing an expression of disdain took one look at the ragged pair on his doorstep and directed them to the servants’ entrance.

  Rhys chuckled. “ ’Tis true enough, Marcus, ye could use a visit to the baths.”

  “As if you smelled like a rose,” Marcus grumbled.

  They followed an alley to the rear of the building. A kitchen slave directed them to an unroofed yard off the central court. Rows of amphorae, the rounded clay shipping containers favored for oil and wine, bordered one side of the space. In an opposite corner, freshly washed linen grew stiff in the cold air.

  A portly Roman with shining white hair and an equally shining white tunic appeared. Marcus knew the man to be Gracchus’s steward.

  “How fares the commander?” Marcus asked.

  The man nodded. “Of course, blacksmith.”

  Belatedly, Marcus remembered that the elderly steward was all but deaf. He repeated the question more loudly.

  The steward’s expression sobered. “Not well. The commander clings to life, but I fear it won’t be long before he stands on the banks of the Styx.”

  “And his daughter? How is she?”

  The question seemed to frighten the man. His gaze dropped to the floor. “As well as can be expected.”

  Marcus cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.” He lifted the wrapped sword. “Tribune Valgus is expecting this delivery.”

  “He requests you await him in the main courtyard. He wishes to inspect the sword before extending payment.”

  “As the Tribune wishes,” Marcus said. In an undertone, he added to Rhys, “Valgus had better part with the full amount.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Rhys murmured back to him as they followed the steward out of the work yard. “Gossip has it that he’s in arrears all over town.”

  An interminable wait ensued. Female voices drifted from the kitchen. Marcus cocked his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of Clara on the upper-story balcony, but to no avail.

  Valgus strode into the yard. Though only two years older than Marcus, the tribune already sported the thickened look of a man past thirty. He wore his haughty air with considerable pride. Many considered him a fine-looking man, and Marcus supposed he might have agreed, if it hadn’t been for Valgus’s eyes. Small and black, they had the unsettling habit of never resting in one place.

  Marcus stepped forward. Forgoing a formal bow, he simply unfolded the oiled cloth and presented his sword.

  Valgus accepted the blade, sliding it from its scabbard and testing the edge as Rhys had done. It was perhaps the finest gladius Marcus had ever made—with it, he’d hoped to gain Gracchus’s favor, but that had been before Clara’s betrothal. Now all he wished for was payment.

  The tribune’s expression betrayed nothing as he slashed a wide arc with the gleaming weapon. “It will do, I suppose.”

  The bastard had likely never held a finer sword. Marcus bit back a retort as Valgus flicked a finger toward the steward. The man stepped forward and placed a pouch in Marcus’s hand.

  Marcus made a quick count of the coins inside. “Nine aurei? This is but half the agreed price.”

  “It’s more than the weapon is worth. Gracchus was far too generous in accepting your price.”

  “I will not accept this payment.”

  “You’ll not have a denarius more.”

  “I’ll take the sword back, then.”

  Valgus raised the tip of the weapon just enough to be threatening. “I invite you to try.”

  Marcus fingered the hilt of the throwing dagger at his belt. Rhys caught his eye, his expression clearly indicating caution. Valgus might be a pampered senator’s son, with more conceit than true military experience, but he was still a trained swordsman. Marcus was a common blacksmith.

  Though it rankled his pride, he stepped back and gave Valgus a curt nod. Depositing the meager pouch in his satchel, he turned to leave without waiting for a formal dismissal. It was a small act of disrespect, but at the moment, all Marcus could afford.

  He strode toward the door to the work yard, Rhys close on his heels. As his hand reached for the latch, the door swung open, Marcus stood aside as an old slave pushed a small handcart loaded with two enormous amphorae over the threshold. An iron-rimmed wheel snagged on an uneven paving stone. The cart heaved. With a crack, the overloaded axle split.

  The old man lunged for the amphorae, trying to halt their forward motion. It was no use. The wooden slats on the front of the cart splintered, sending the containers sliding to the ground. They crashed on the paving stones, shattering in a shower of clay. The aroma of olives filled the air as waves of green-gold liquid cascaded over the mosaic floor.

  The slave went down hard on his knees. Marcus stretched out a hand, but before the old man could take the proffered aid, Valgus, new sword in hand, shoved Marcus aside.

  “Worthless Celt swine.”

  The old man clutched the side of the cart, trying to heave himself upright. He didn’t succeed. Valgus’s booted foot connected with his ribs, sending him face first into the ruined oil.

  “Ho, there!” Marcus said. If there was one thing Marcus hated above all else, it was the cruelty of the powerful to the weak. “There’s no call—”

  A second kick caught the slave in the head. The old man curled into a ball, moaning. Rhys darted forward. Heedless of the oil, he dropped to his knees beside the fallen man.

  Valgus raised his sword arm. “Out of my way!”

  Marcus grabbed Valgus’s wrist, halting the weapon’s downward arc. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the commotion had brought several slaves out of the kitchen.

  Valgus struggled to extract his arm from Marcus’s grip, but a soft officer was no match for strength honed by daily labor in a forge. Marcus squeezed until he felt the grind of bones under his fingers. The tribune’s face went scarlet. His grip loosened.

  The gladius clattered to the ground, splashing oil.

  Abruptly, Marcus released him. Valgus stifled a gasp. The shocked huddle of slaves scattered. Valgus lowered his arm, holding it in a natural position, but Marcus wasn’t fooled. It would be some time before the tribune wielded his new sword.


  “I’ll have your word of honor,” Marcus said quietly, “that you’ll do this man no further harm.”

  “I give no such promise,” Valgus muttered. “The useless cur isn’t worth the price of his feed.”

  “I’ll be content to undertake the burden of his care.”

  Valgus’s expression turned calculating. “Ah, yes. I’d heard you collect vermin. What price do you offer?”

  “None. You’ve declared him worthless.”

  “One man’s garbage is another’s gold. And even garbage has its uses. For example, I would take great pleasure in killing this slave. Surely that is worth a few coins.” His gaze lit on Marcus’s satchel. “Perhaps the exact amount of your purse?”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “You would haggle over the price of a man’s life?”

  Marcus’s anger flared. Valgus had turned the tables neatly, he realized. Seeing no other recourse—at least none that would not end in arrest—Marcus withdrew Valgus’s pouch from his satchel and threw it on the ground. “Get the old man up and out of here,” he said in Celtic to Rhys, not taking his eyes from the tribune.

  Rhys looped one of the old man’s arms around his shoulders and helped him rise. A low moan vibrated in the slave’s throat. Marcus crouched, lending his aid. Under Valgus’s glare, they carried the old man from the courtyard.

  “Ye’ve made a powerful enemy,” Rhys said once they’d reached the alley.

  Marcus exhaled. “It couldn’t be helped. I could hardly have left an old man to such a master.”

  “Valgus is nay my master,” the old slave croaked. “I belong to Commander Gracchus’s household.”

  Marcus passed a hand over his eyes. Not only had he lost all his coin, he’d paid it to the wrong man.

  The old slave opened his mouth to say more, but a fit of coughing stole his words. Blood trickled from between his lips. He ended with a moan, his head lolling.

  “We’ll never get him home without a cart,” Marcus muttered. “And now I’ve no money to hire one.”

  “I’ll gain one with the promise of a song,” Rhys said. “We’ve only to get past the fortress gates and into the city.”

  They carried the unconscious man past the guards, who eyed them but made little comment. No one cared much for an injured slave. Rhys begged a cart and pony from a tavern owner he knew well. Marcus eased the old man onto his back on a heap of straw.

  Rhys bent over the cart. “I hope Rhiannon can help him.”

  “If she can’t, there’s little hope,” Marcus replied.

  The old man’s eyelids opened. His eyes, blurred with pain, alighted on Rhys’s face. “By all the gods in Annwyn,” he breathed. “Ye are a Wise One.”

  Marcus stiffened.

  Rhys gripped the old man’s hand. “Aye, elder, your vision is true. Can ye tell me your name?”

  The old man’s eyes drifted shut. “I … I am called Aiden.”

  Chapter Six

  So this was why a woman debased herself before a man.

  Clara yanked her bone comb through her tangled hair, muttering under her breath. Yesterday’s kiss had set her afire, as if someone had kindled a blaze in her belly. Her senses had magnified tenfold, all centered on Owein. She was aware of him as she’d never been of any man.

  When he rummaged about, preparing for their journey to the stones, she felt his every movement. Each word he spoke echoed inside her skull. When his pine and heather scent teased her nostrils, her stomach pitched and tumbled.

  He paused in his work, his gaze lingering far too long on the fall of her unbraided hair. An ache sprang up in her gut, but it was totally unlike the feeling one had after dining too heavily. No, the sensation was more akin to hunger.

  Hastily, she gathered her hair at her nape and fashioned one long braid. She’d never worn such a plain style, but it was all she could manage without the help of her maids. She tied the plait with a ribbon from her satchel, aware of Owein’s attention upon her. Her pulse fluttered and her breathing was shallow. Reaching deep in her satchel—Owein had graciously repaired the severed shoulder strap—she searched past the coins and jewelry for her vial of rose oil. She drew out the bottle and uncorked it, breathing deeply.

  At once her nerves calmed. Curiously, her actions seemed to have the opposite effect on Owein. He’d gone tense, his blue eyes sparking with unnerving intensity.

  “What is that?” he asked gruffly.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Why, it’s nothing but rose oil.” She dabbed a bit on her throat.

  “Ye traipsed across the wilderness carrying a vial of scent?” His tone was angry, though she couldn’t imagine why.

  “It was hardly a burden,” she said crossly, replacing the vial’s stopper and stowing the bottle in her pack.

  He shoved a bowl of stew into her hands. “Here,” he all but barked. “Eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.” She set it aside.

  He grunted and settled beside her on the bench with his own meal. He was much too close for her peace of mind. Her eye lingered on the thin, primitive braid that hung from his temple. It sent a shiver down her spine. At least the hearth fire had been between them during the night. Even so, she’d lain awake for hours, listening to his steady breathing. And hoping. For what, she didn’t know.

  She watched him from under her lashes as he ate. He wasn’t careless about his manners, as she might have expected a barbarian to be. Her gaze was drawn to his lips. They were firm and mobile, and very expressive. She wished his beard gone so she could examine them more thoroughly.

  What would he look like clean-shaven? She traced the line of his jaw with her eyes, mentally removing his curly red mane. She would cut his hair as well—but perhaps not so short as a Roman man would wear it. She’d leave it curling over his ears and touching his shoulders. And then she would run her fingers through it …

  “Lass.”

  Clara’s gaze snapped to his. There was a knowing expression in his blue eyes. His attention dropped to her mouth. She lowered her eyes, her heart pounding. Would he try to kiss her again?

  He didn’t. He only retrieved her bowl and pressed it into her hands. His touch lingered—intentionally, she was sure. Heat flared in his blue eyes like the dark center of a flame. His finger stroked her thumb from base to tip, touching off a conflagration low in her belly.

  He offered her a mug of cervesia, the barley beer favored by the Celts. It was a pungent beverage she’d never tasted. One whiff of it set her stomach churning.

  His warm fingers closed on hers, anchoring her hand to the earthenware. “Drink. Ye need your strength for the journey.”

  Drink? How could she, when her heart was lodged in her throat? Her body tingled and her cheeks burned. She was shameless. What would Father think if he knew she was entertaining lustful thoughts of a wild barbarian? She could picture the censure in his eyes all too easily.

  She brought the mug to her lips and forced a sip of the bitter brew. She had to get hold of her emotions. Surely one kiss from a man shouldn’t reduce a woman’s brain to gruel. She hated this helpless feeling.

  The events of the last few days had been so far out of her experience, she could scarcely believe they had happened to her. Had she truly ducked through the fortress gates and into the mountains on the strength of her faith in an old man? Had she conversed with a barbarian Celt, slept in his dwelling, even allowed his kiss?

  But perhaps most disturbing was when she had slipped into Owein’s mind by magic. She didn’t have a clear idea how it had happened. Perhaps Aiden had been right in insisting Clara held power in her own right. If only Owein would reconsider his refusal to teach her.

  Perhaps she would ask him again.

  They departed for the stones at dawn.

  Clara wore new boots. They were a crude construction of fur and leather, fashioned by Owein’s hand. She’d protested at first, reluctant to part with her own pearl-edged pair, damaged though they were. Owein had grunted and tossed them into the s
now. She supposed he was right in deeming them unsuitable for a difficult mountain trek. But she couldn’t help feeling that another bit of her old self had been tossed aside with them.

  Now that she was actively searching for her mother’s cup, she had difficulty taming her worry about her father. How did he fare? Did he even still live? Would she return in time to save him, buying herself time to convince him that Valgus wouldn’t make her a suitable husband? Or would she return to find her father dead and Valgus livid over her disappearance?

  She shuddered. At Father’s death, Valgus would become her guardian, whether they were married yet or not. It was no secret that Father’s fortune had induced the tribune to accept a soldier’s daughter as wife—there were rumors that Valgus’s own father was deeply in debt. Clara was certain the tribune would demand they marry quickly. As her husband, he would have full control of Father’s vineyards in Gaul, his iron works in the south of Britannia, and the new villa and horse farm he was building near Isca. Not to mention the trunk of gold secured in the vault under the fortress temple.

  Grim thoughts skittered through her mind as she followed Owein into terrain that grew increasingly more rugged. The wind was icy, but at least the sky was clear of clouds. A bright winter sun illuminated the bald tops of the mountains and cast shadows in the forested valleys between. Two days to reach the stones, Owein had said. When his vision came—if it came—they would decide their next move.

  He’d spoken little since morning. He’d awakened slowly, as if rising from a dream he didn’t wish to lose. Once on the trail, he’d set a punishing pace. Or rather, his pace was punishing for Clara. For Owein, the trek was likely a leisurely stroll.

  The descending trails were more treacherous than the ascending ones. Ice and snow slicked the ground. Clara suspected Owein kept to the forested trails because the footing was surer. Even so, she’d fallen thrice. The first time, she’d come down hard on her right hip, which ached still. After that, Owein stayed closer, to catch her before she hit the ground. Each time, his hands lingered as if reluctant to withdraw from her body.