by Joy Nash
“Owein.”
The Druid opened his eyes but didn’t otherwise move a muscle. The blue of his irises was intense, the exact color of Breena’s, Marcus realized with a start. But though Marcus and Breena had quarreled often enough, his sister’s clear gaze had never held the pure hatred that Owein’s did.
He resisted an urge to step back. He would not cower before this nightmare from his youth. He let a challenge show in his eyes.
Several heartbeats passed before recognition joined the animosity in Owein’s expression. “Ye are Lucius Aquila’s son,” he said. His Latin was heavily accented.
“Yes.” Though Marcus might have answered in Celtic, he did not.
“Ye have the look of him.”
“I know.” Stepping closer, Marcus catalogued Owein’s injuries with the eye of a man whose stepmother was a healer. The Druid’s limbs, at least, appeared to be sound. His cuts were superficial, though the one on his head had bled profusely. The faint imprint of a boot on his torso indicated bruised ribs at the least.
“Can you stand?” Marcus asked.
The question was met with a snort. “A fine joke, Roman.”
“I mean, if your bonds were removed,” Marcus snapped.
Owein regarded him steadily. “Why are ye here?”
“Surely you can guess. I am here at Rhiannon’s request. And Clara’s,” he added after a pause.
An uncertain emotion flickered in Owein’s eyes. “She is safe?”
“Yes. She waits with my stepmother and sister at the entrance to the arena.”
Owein struggled, as if to rise, though such a gesture was futile. “What kind of man are ye to allow women near such a place?”
Marcus gave a snort. “Do you think I could have persuaded them to remain at the farm? They would have followed me even into the pens, if the guard had allowed it.” He exhaled. “They’ll not rest until I see you out of this place.”
Owein’s expression went blank. “Ye mean to buy me?”
“If your price isn’t too high.” It was a low blow, but Marcus found he couldn’t resist delivering it.
Owein turned his head and spat. “Save your money, Roman. I’d sooner take a chance at the games than bow to ye as my master.”
Marcus gritted his teeth. “I’ve no wish to be your master. Once I buy you, you’ll be free.”
Three men came to remove Owein from his cart.
He almost laughed at that. They treated him as if he were a bear, or a wildcat. They bound his arms behind him and stripped his braccas from his legs, leaving him naked in the chill air. They linked his ankles with a second rope.
When he moved forward, it was at a shuffle. One of the men picked up a placard leaning against the cart bearing Owein’s description. A length of rope was attached; he looped it over Owein’s head, positioning the sign on his chest.
Each slave for sale was similarly identified. The procession traversed the forum market and disappeared into the arena. Owein had been sold once before. But that had been in a small military camp, and the crowd had not been so large, nor so populated by enthusiastic civilians. Today Clara was in the throng. As were Rhiannon and her daughter. Owein tasted bile. Whatever he’d endured on that dark day long ago, this was far, far worse.
A man walked the row of slaves, flicking his whip, seemingly at random, clearly enjoying the encouraging shouts from the crowd. The lash fell across Owein’s back. He arched in shock, but didn’t cry out. He would not give his tormentor, nor the spectators, that satisfaction.
Fate drew him inexorably toward the arched portal leading to the arena. Clara was near. He could feel her as a soft flutter at the edges of his awareness. He doubted if she was conscious of him, for he’d locked the barrier of his mind against her as securely as the slaver’s lackeys had bound his wrists and ankles. He would not allow her to enter his mind again.
The guard gave another flick of the whip. This time the lash caught Owein’s hip. He sucked in a breath, stifling fury.
At the entrance to the arena, the sign around his neck was replaced by a rope. The knot pulled tight as a handler jerked the leash. Owein recognized the man as Calidius’s assistant, the one he’d tried to kill the night before. He held a slaver’s flagellum, its multiple leather thongs knotted with sharp bits of metal. Owein stared at the instrument of torture, remembering. Sweat broke out on his brow.
Calidius’s man hauled him toward the center of the arena, urging him forward with a lick of the lash. The crowd parted. Owein soon found himself shoved into a circle and prodded toward the stone block in the center. The patrons buzzed, crowding closer.
Calidius, flanked by a guard, stood at a podium nearby. The slave handler presented him with Owein’s sign. Calidius made a show of perusing it.
“The next offering is a fine one,” he pronounced.
“Looks like a wild beast!” cried a voice from the crowd.
“Look at that cock!” another said.
“He’s so filthy, you can hardly see it!”
“Will you bathe him first, at least, Calidius?”
Though he knew it was fruitless, Owein struggled with his bonds, humiliation burning his throat. The bidders jeered, surging as close as the guards allowed. Those nearest were all men; behind, in the stands, the more idle spectators were of both sexes, though the women seemed only to be allowed in the higher levels.
For that, at least, Owein was thankful. The thought of Clara witnessing his shame at close quarters nauseated him. It was bad enough to know she was here, watching.
The whip licked between Owein’s shoulder blades, forcing him to climb onto the auction stone. The tethers on his ankles made the maneuver difficult. He lifted his chin and fixed his gaze on the rim of blue sky that ringed the top level of the amphitheatre.
Calidius cleared his throat and read from the placard. “Lot fifty-four. Male Celt. Outlaw. Free of disease. Strong back, good teeth. Recommended for heavy labor or training in gladiatorial combat.”
“But who will tame him for me?” someone called out. A laugh rippled through the crowd.
“A firm hand with the whip is all that’s needed,” Calidius professed. As if to punctuate this sentiment, his assistant applied the flagellum to Owein’s shoulders. Owein hissed in pain. He lurched forward, nearly falling from the stone.
“See what I mean?” Calidius declared. “The bid opens at twelve gold aurei.”
“That’s damn high,” a portly man grumbled. Nevertheless, he raised his hand.
“Many thanks, Baldus. This one would be a fine addition to your gladiators, and would certainly draw a crowd to the arena. But what of the rest of you? I have twelve aurei. Do I hear fourteen?” A second bidder shouted his assent and the auction began in earnest, with several more men entering the fray.
None of them was Marcus Aquila.
Surely the blacksmith was present. Owein scanned the crowd, hating how his stomach soured at the thought that his enemy’s son might have abandoned him. When he finally spied Marcus, standing within a knot of men on the far side of Calidius, his relief was acute. As was his shame.
Marcus was silent, seemingly intent on the bidding, though he made no offer himself. One by one, men dropped out, until only two bidders remained. The one called Baldus, who sought fodder for the games, and another, Flavius, a stout man with a booming voice. Marcus’s brows drew together as they sparred, driving Owein’s price higher.
Finally, Flavius shook his bald head. “Twenty-six gold aurei! Far too rich for my blood.”
Calidius looked at Baldus. “Baldus holds at twenty-six, then. If there are no more—”
Marcus Aquila’s voice rang out. “Twenty-seven.”
Calidius turned in surprise. “Marcus Aquila? You wish to enter the bid at this late hour?”
Marcus inclined his head.
Baldus cursed. “The idiot blacksmith will free the brute, as he always does. Where’s the sense in that? Aquila should be barred from the auctions.”
“What I do
with my property is surely no consideration of yours,” Marcus replied coldly.
Baldus shot Marcus a look laced with contempt. He turned to the auctioneer. “Thirty-five aurei.”
The crowd gasped. Owein’s gaze snapped to Marcus. The blacksmith’s frown had deepened. Had the bid exceeded the contents of his purse?
Marcus’s jaw set. “Thirty-six.”
Baldus’s eyes narrowed. “Thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-nine.”
“Forty.”
Marcus’s jaw looked as though it would snap. A deep inhale filled his chest.
“Fifty,” he declared.
Baldus let out a bark. “Fifty aurei? For that?” He threw back his head and laughed, his gut jiggling heartily. “Can you believe it? Why, it’s coin down the sewer!” He nodded to Calidius. “Let Aquila have the beast, with my blessing.”
“Done,” announced Calidius quickly. He looked like a man who’d stumbled across a gold mine. “Payment is due before possession,” he told Marcus.
Marcus stepped to the podium. Opening a large leather satchel, he emptied the contents on its surface. Not only coin, but a pile of gold, silver, and gems.
Clara’s jewelry.
“What’s this?” Calidius said. “You know I accept only coin.”
“The items here are worth more than fifty aurei.”
“I cannot be sure of that. And in any case, I will have the trouble of pricing and selling the pieces.” He shook his head. “If you can’t produce coin, I’ll have to sell the brute to Baldus.”
“No,” Marcus said quickly. “I want him.”
His hand hesitated only a scant moment before dropping to the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his belt. The blade slid smoothly from its sheath. Owein could see it was a stunning weapon, with intricate tracery and a tapered point. The hilt and pommel were inlaid with silver.
Calidius’s guard reacted swiftly, drawing his sword and angling the tip toward Marcus’s neck. “Drop your weapon.”
Marcus met the guard’s gaze squarely, making no move to obey. By the Horned God! Surely Lucius Aquila’s son wasn’t foolish enough to attack a slaver at auction? He would be dead in an instant.
Marcus flipped the dagger and offered it, hilt-first, to Calidius. “I trust this weapon is sufficient to complete the transaction.”
Calidius’s brows rose. He took hold of the weapon, his greed barely concealed. “Of your own make?”
“Of course.” Marcus’s voice sounded strained. “It’s worth at least twenty-five aurei. Added to the coin and jewelry, there is more than enough value to purchase this slave.”
“Include the scabbard as well, and I’ll accept the deal.”
Marcus hesitated only briefly before unbuckling his scabbard and placing it on the podium. Another work of art, the leather was tooled with a Celtic design, inlaid with silver. Owein could tell it pained the blacksmith to part with it.
A scroll was produced, which Marcus signed. He pressed his ring into the wax Calidius’s man dripped at the bottom of the document. The transaction complete, Calidius rolled the papyrus and handed it to Marcus.
“Cut his ropes,” Marcus said.
Calidius gave a swift shake of his head. “Not here in the arena. This one’s dangerous.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. All the same, I want him unbound. And since I’ve given up my dagger to you …”
“You’ll get no refund if he runs,” Calidius cautioned.
“I expect none.”
“As you say. But I’ll not endanger my customers.” He nodded to Owein’s handler. “Accompany Marcus Aquila and his slave to the forum market. Once there, you may cut the bonds.”
“Yes, sir.” The man gave a sharp tug on Owein’s tether. Owein hadn’t anticipated the move; his attention had been fixed on Aquila and Calidius. He stumbled off the auction block. He would have fallen if Marcus hadn’t sprung forward to catch his arm. Their gazes met, briefly.
“Take your hands from me,” he choked out, a tide of rage and helplessness rising hotly. Was Clara watching this humiliation? How would she bear to look at him, after seeing him paraded naked and sold like a beast?
Marcus stepped away. “Cut the ropes on this man’s legs,” he said. The guard looked at Calidius, who shrugged.
The relief Owein felt at having his legs unrestrained was overwhelming. And yet he hated that Marcus Aquila had been the one to grant that freedom.
“I’ll take his tether as well,” Marcus said.
The guard placed the end of the rope in Marcus’s hand. Marcus’s fist closed around it. Owein drew a sharp breath. Marcus looked up. His eyes met Owein’s, assessing him.
Deliberately, Marcus let the rope drop. “Do not think to do anything that will upset Rhiannon,” he warned in a low voice.
Owein jerked his head in a nod.
“Come.”
Owein followed him from the arena, acutely aware of his nudity and the murmurings of the crowd. They passed into the forum market, where Calidius’s man cut Owein’s ropes. A small crowd gathered, gawking. Marcus tossed a coin to one of the venders and received a pair of braccas, worn but still serviceable. Owein jerked them on.
The spectacle hadn’t ended. The crowd had an expectant air, and Marcus seemed to welcome the attention. Turning to the crowd, he pronounced the formal words of manumission.
“Before the people of Isca, I, Marcus Ulpius Aquila, citizen, declare this slave a free man. His name shall be entered in the city census. From this day forward, Owein of the Brigantes is a citizen of Rome.”
A citizen of Rome? Owein stiffened. He couldn’t imagine a worse insult.
His scowl must have revealed the sentiment, for Marcus sent him a quelling glance. He turned, facing Owein, but his words were spoken loudly, for the benefit of the crowd.
“Liber esto, amicus.”
Be free, friend.
Pivoting sharply, Marcus strode away. Owein stared at his retreating form. After a moment’s hesitation, he stalked after him. He caught up with Marcus in an area crowded with horses and carts. Marcus approached a pair of horses, patting them on the nose and speaking softly. He turned, propped his hip against the side of the cart, and folded his arms across his broad chest.
They stood for a moment, gazes locked in challenge. This was the man Clara would marry. The man who would share her bed and her life.
Owein had never hated anyone more.
“Where are the women?” he asked finally.
“It takes some time to make it down from the upper seating,” Marcus replied in Celtic. “I expect they’ll be here soon enough.”
Owein stared. Until now, Marcus had spoken only in Latin, and Owein had assumed he didn’t speak the Celt tongue. Few Romans did. But Marcus’s last words had flowed in flawless Celtic. What was more, his accent was an echo of Owein’s own northern lilt.
“Try,” Marcus added crossly, “to exhibit at least a veneer of civility when they arrive.”
“Dinna provoke me, man.”
Marcus straightened. “Don’t forget who spoke the public words of manumission.”
Owein flexed his fingers, fighting his rage. He knew very well he was indebted to Marcus Aquila for his life and freedom. Perversely, he wanted nothing more than to smash his fist into the Roman’s face.
Marcus’s gaze snapped to a point behind Owein. “They are here,” he murmured.
“Owein!”
Rhiannon. Owein turned, his heart constricting so tightly he feared it would stop beating. His sister was before him, running down the row of carts, all pretense of reserve abandoned. Clara and a young red-haired girl who could only be his sister’s daughter were close behind her.
Owein couldn’t make his feet move toward them. He stood, rooted to the ground, watching them come. Rhiannon reached him first. She made to throw her arms around him, but he caught her wrists and held her back.
“I’m covered in filth, little mama.”
She tipped her head back and gazed up at him. She lo
oked much as she did in his memories, save for a few lines about her eyes and mouth, and a strand or two of silver in her hair. Her amber eyes filled with tears. “Do ye think I care about a little dirt?”
“I care.” He looked over her head. Clara had halted a few steps behind. Her expression was a question he didn’t want to answer.
Rhiannon lifted a hand and riffled her fingers through his filthy hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. Her touch was soft yet it went through his body like a blade. How many times had she soothed him this way, when he’d been a lad and she’d been the only mother he knew? He shut his eyes, tears burning behind his eyelids.
“Ye shouldn’t have come to the arena,” he said roughly.
“How could I stay away?”
“I’m nay worth the price Lucius Aquila’s son paid.”
“You’re worth far more.” She did fling her arms around him then, clutching him to her tightly. “Oh, Owein. I never thought to see ye again.”
Owein gripped her shoulders. “Ye’ll soil your dress.”
But she wouldn’t let him push her away. She clung to him all the tighter, her face pressed against his chest, her body shaking with sobs. Owein stood awkwardly, not wanting to embrace her for fear of dirtying her even more. But as her weeping continued, he found he could do nothing but enclose her in his arms. Looking over her head, he saw that Clara and Rhiannon’s daughter were crying as well.
Marcus Aquila, however, was not.
“We’re drawing an audience,” he said curtly. “Let’s remove this touching drama to the farm.”
Owein let his hands fall to his sides.
“Placet.”
As you say.
Chapter Nineteen
He was being an ass.
Marcus surveyed the scene before him with increasing self-disgust. Owein, freshly bathed and dressed in Lucius’s spare braccas and shirt, occupied the chair by the hearth. The braccas were too short; they only just covered Owein’s knees. Rhiannon fussed, bringing her brother a mug of cervesia, then remaining by his side while he drank.