The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance

by Kayse, Joan

No more. They may not have reached common ground on the nature of their relationship, but she was not going to let him shoulder more displaced guilt. “Enough, Damon. We both know that it is because of me, because of this mysterious information my father may have held, that caused this. Let us agree at least on this one thing.”

  She saw that he wanted to argue, but a sudden weariness settled over him. “With a man like the Urban Prefect there is no room for blame. He will get what he wants at all costs. That is why I made arrangements for my sister’s safety and why,” he raised his head, his silver gaze so intense Julia felt it to her core. “I have made arrangements for Lares, Aunt Sophia and you to leave the city.”

  “What do you mean you’ve made arrangements? Without consulting me?”

  “I’ve spoken with Kaj.”

  “Kaj does not make the decisions of this household.” She stood, began to pace. “I have no argument against sending Lares and Aunt Sophia away. But I will not leave.” You, she wanted to say. I will not leave you.

  “Julia,” he said between clenched teeth, “you’re not being reasonable.”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “Reason? You want reason? Abandoning my home would give Quintus all the reason he needs to seize our property, our resources. There would be nothing left.” She squared her shoulders. “I will stay and protect what is mine.”

  He rose to his feet and crossed to her so quickly she barely had time to register the look of sheer anger and fear darkening his features.

  “I will not let anything happen to you. You must do as I say.”

  Her gaze clashed with his. “Why, Damon? Why would you risk so much for someone who forced you into this precarious situation?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. Julia could see the emotions raging behind those gray eyes. They always darkened to that storm cloud color when he was struggling to maintain control. She swallowed against the pain in her heart. If he was so proud, or so stubborn that he would not admit to holding feelings for her then she would face this danger alone. “Damon,” her voice quavered. She drew a calming breath and started again, her gaze unwavering as she spoke. “Damon, I release you from your vow. You are free to leave.”

  The only noise in the garden was the chirping of crickets. Damon stared at her for so long that Julia thought she might scream from the pressure of it. Why wasn’t he arguing with her? Why didn’t he just leave? She kept her mouth shut tight, afraid that if she asked it would come out on the sob that clogged her throat.

  A quiet cough sounded from the entrance to the garden.

  “Yes,” Damon called out over his shoulder. The tone of his voice carried all the command of a patrician.

  “Um, excuse me, master. But this has just arrived. The messenger insisted it was urgent.”

  Julia released the breath she’d been holding as Damon released her and turned to Basil. The gatekeeper wore a worried look on his face and still looked too pale. With his injured arm supported in a sling he had insisted on returning to his duties. Julia gave him a reassuring smile over Damon’s shoulder though her stomach was still tied in knots. He held out his hand for the folded parchment. Breaking the wax seal he began to read.

  “Well, Julia,” he said brusquely as he rolled up the missive and crushed it in his hand. “It seems your generous offer will have to wait. Damon Pontus and his wife Julia have been invited to attend the chariot races on the morrow. Guests of the Urban Prefect of Rome.”

  *****

  Refusing an invitation from the most powerful man in Rome was never a wise thing to do. Damon scanned the milling crowds outside the Circus Maximus. But then again, attending could prove just as unhealthy. Thousands of people provided the ideal cover for assassins. Interlocking corridors coupled with dozens of steep stairs presented perfect spot for accidents.

  Damon bit back a grim smile. Paranoia was an unsettling affliction.

  Assisting Julia from the litter, he wrapped a protective arm around her waist. He wanted her close despite the excruciating agony of her sweet form pressed against him. They were walking into a nest of vipers and he would not allow any harm to come to his goddess.

  If it had been up to him, Julia would not even be present. He’d proposed she feign an illness, an idea she had flatly refused, declaring that her position as Senator Octavian Manulus’ daughter was the strongest shield they possessed. Try as he might, he could not find an argument to counter it. Gods, her willfulness was nearly as provocative as her full, lush lips and bountiful breasts. Her fire, her spirit, her courage—all of it bound into an irresistible package that he was finding harder and harder to resist. There was no other woman in all of Rome like his goddess.

  And he would protect her with his life.

  They entered through the Palatine gate. As with the rest of Roman society, the four tiers of stone benches were divided according to class. The first level had select areas set aside for temple priests, the six Vestal Virgins, senators and wealthy equestrians. The general public or the mob as the aristocrats were fond of calling those with no status, were consigned to the upper tiers which, when Damon considered, provided a better view with less dust.

  Julia twisted and turned her head. “I’ve never seen so many people in one place.”

  He gave a snort of disbelief. “What Roman has never been to the Circus?”

  She shrugged her elegant shoulder. “Father considered it a crude pastime for his family. He only came when his official duties dictated it.”

  Damon heard the sadness beneath her words. With all that had been occurring, she’d never had time to grieve for her father.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  Damon shrugged his shoulder. “I used to come all the time as a boy. Father had seats there along the side by the starting gate. Of course I did not see much of him. He spent the entire day behind the stands placing bets and losing. Once he even went home without me.”

  “Such a thing I cannot fathom,” she murmured. “Your father was a foolish man.”

  He’d not argue that but such events were long in his past.

  “Quintus Marcellus, Prefect of Rome, bids you welcome.”

  They turned to a bald slave dressed in a gold-embellished white tunic. The man had evidently been awaiting their arrival. It disconcerted Damon no small amount that the man had recognized them. Quintus’ network of infiltrators must be vast.

  The slave clasped his hands and inclined his head. “If you will, master.”

  Damon kept his grip light but firm on Julia as the man led the way up three flights of chiseled steps to the Imperial enclosure. A marble building set on the highest tier at the Palatine end of the track; it had spacious seating for the elite as well as a separate box for the Emperor and his entourage. There were only two exits, Damon noted. The doorway they entered through now or over the side three stories below to the hard-packed earth of the track. He took a deep breath and touched the hilt of the blade hidden beneath the folds of his toga.

  “Ah, Julia. My dear. How kind of you to accept my invitation.”

  Julia tensed beside him as Quintus sauntered toward them. “I want to leave,” she whispered under her breath.

  “And openly insult the Prefect? Not a wise idea, goddess,” he said into her ear. But he understood her apprehension. While Quintus exuded the most exquisite manners, there was an undercurrent of supreme confidence in his power and position that was unsettling. Coupled with a will of self-centered malevolence and it was a combination that no man in his right state of mind would be foolish enough to challenge.

  Of course, Damon had never been accused of being in his right state of mind.

  He watched the Prefect approach and straightened his shoulders, which emphasized his height. He stood at least a head taller and noted with quiet amusement the flair of annoyance in the man’s cold eyes. Simple tactics, but he’d take every advantage he could.

  “Julia,” Quintus took her hands in his and tugged her toward him, kissing her on both cheeks.

&nbs
p; Damon grit his teeth as the bastard’s lips lingered a breath longer than what was considered proper. He remained firmly planted to Julia’s side, a clear signal that the man would have to be blind not to see.

  Quintus wasn’t blind. He pulled away and met Damon’s gaze, his mouth drawn into a tight line of irritation. “Pontus. You, of course, are also welcomed.” Damon grasped the man’s forearm in greeting. Quintus’ fingers dug into his skin, but Damon kept the smile on his face friendly.

  “We are honored to be here,” he answered easily. “My wife,” he gave the slightest emphasis on the word wife, “has never attended the races.”

  “Really?” Quintus purred. “Well, my dear, you are in for a treat. Come sit next to me.”

  The Prefect had Julia by the arm before Damon could react and was leading her to the front row of cushioned stone benches. As if on cue, a handful of other guests filed into line after them leaving Damon to bring up the rear.

  Grudgingly giving him credit for such a well-planned move, Damon shouldered his way through the others arriving on the opposite side of the bench just as Quintus and Julia arrived.

  “It is a beautiful day to watch the horses run,” he said smoothly, extending his hand for Julia to take which she did, holding on with a death grip.

  Quintus’ expression went hard but then he slid his congenial mask back in place with practiced ease. “Indeed it is.”

  They sat on the bench with Julia snugged between them. A score of other guests settled in behind them.

  “So this is your first visit to the races?” Quintus began, holding out a goblet for a slave to fill with wine. Damon accepted some from the same jar and sipped it only after Quintus had taken a drink. Poison was a coward’s way out, but highly effective.

  An oily smile slid over the bastard’s lips. He was toying with them, Damon thought, like a cat does with a mouse before devouring it. He took a healthier swallow of the spirits. What this cat did not realize was that this mouse...this street rat...had teeth and claws and wouldn’t hesitate to use them to protect the woman he loved.

  Damon managed to conceal the small choking noise in his throat with a cough. Julia’s brow creased in concern, but he swung his gaze out concentrating on the stadium below. He loved Julia. The fear that that thought should have provoked did not surface. She was everything a man could ask from a woman and more. A woman who filled an empty place within him that he’d not realized existed. A woman worth everything. Even his life.

  But he did not intend for it to get that far. He eyed Quintus over his chalice. He was the most skilled agent in the entire espionage underworld of Rome. He was going to find out what the bastard was hiding and use it to bring him to his knees.

  Quintus was still speaking. “There are four teams,” he was explaining to Julia who was doing a marvelous job of feigning interest. “The Reds, the Whites, the Greens and the Blues. Each owned by a different factiones or stable designated by one of the four colors.”

  “Is that why I saw people wearing strips of colored cloth on their persons?”

  Quintus laughed. “Indeed. Every person who attends wants it well known which team they support.” He raised a long, carved rod up, a piece of red material snapping in the breeze. “I admit I myself have fallen prey to the high spirits generated by the event.”

  “The Reds have won the majority of the races this past season,” commented Damon lazily. “I would think they are long past due a defeat.”

  Quintus leaned in front of Julia, his eyes narrowed. “The Reds are the most skilled team. Their lead charioteer the famed Diocles is renowned for his prowess and exacting strategy.”

  Damon shrugged a shoulder, glanced at the Prefect before returning his gaze to the crowds below. “As I say, no one can win every effort. The Blue team has more spirit, their horses bred from strong Arabian lines, their drivers are hungry for victory.”

  Quintus laughed and as if on cue, so did the rest of his sycophants. He gave Damon a calculating look. “At the risk of appearing inhospitable, would you care to lay a small wager on the first race?”

  His tone of voice conveyed that Quintus held no qualms that his team would win, most probably because he’d bribed a driver or arranged for an accident. Still, the race was close to starting and he’d not known which team Damon might support. He decided to risk the odds.

  “I’ll wager one hundred silver pieces.”

  The amount of the wager drew gasps from the other guests. Quintus expression hardened. “Done.”

  The stringent blare of trumpets sounded from the arched entry at the other end of the track. A dozen dancing slave girls, clanging cymbals and prancing about in joyous fervor led the ceremonial parade onto the track. They were followed by just as many men blowing trumpets and fools tumbling and skipping about wearing elaborate horse-head masks. Each fool was dressed in one of the four colors and brought roars of laughter from the crowd as they pantomimed the dash of chariots around the track.

  “The mob. They are so easily amused.” There was a sneer in Quintus’ tone. “Give them bread and the games and they are content to live their miserable lot.”

  Damon caught Julia’s irate look. It pleased him that she felt outrage at Quintus’ dismissive view a result, he supposed, of her upbringing by a socially aware father. Suddenly, he wished he had known Octavian Manulus. But this was neither the time nor the place to debate the fate of the people. He sent her an imperceptible shake of the head. She flared her eyes at him, but kept her mouth closed.

  The ceremony continued. Behind the revelers came men carrying statues of racing deities, among them Sol and Luna. They would be brought here to the Imperial enclosure and positioned on flat marble stands so that all could see that the races were blessed by the gods. His father had encouraged a young Damon to pray for victory to one or the other, whichever the day’s odds maker recommended. Felix Primax had always picked the wrong one.

  The crowd let out a deafening roar when the chariot teams entered the circus. The Circus Maximus lived up to its name, easily accommodating up to twelve teams, three from each stable. Today’s race would run with four horses per chariot.

  As the charioteers lined up their teams along the curved starting line, Quintus leaned toward Julia. “And what team will you cheer on?”

  “Why, Prefect,” she answered in a congenial voice, turning to Damon and lacing her hand in his. The gaze she turned up to him was filled with sincerity. “I can do no less than support my husband.”

  Damon’s chest swelled with pride. His goddess was brave and spirited just like the steeds below. What a wonder life would be trying to tame her. He was fair certain it couldn’t be done, but oh, the joy in trying.

  He squeezed her hand, leaned over and nipped at her ear, biting back a smile at the sour look on Quintus’ face.

  “We shall see,” the Prefect intoned in a flat voice.

  As he was the sponsor of the races, Quintus stood and went to the edge of the box. He waved a white cloth which set the crowd to wild cheering. Then, he let it drop.

  The chariots took off in a cloud of dust. Even above the roar of the spectators, Damon could hear the sharp crack of whips and the creaking of wheels. The chariots themselves were insubstantial, barely a wide board set on an axle. The drivers controlled the muscled horses with only the reins wrapped around their waists. A turn badly taken could result in the driver being swept from the chariot, tethered and dragged or trampled to his death. Even as he contemplated that, one of the Green team’s drivers careened around the first turn, lost control and was flung onto the track. The other horses did not miss a step, crushing the man into the sand.

  Julia paled and hissed in a breath. Gods, he would have shielded her from this. For his part, Quintus was cheering, striking the air with a clenched fist. While Damon had seen more than a few men die—some in the cruelest way—he always mourned the loss. Quintus thrived on it. Another indication of how dangerous this enemy was.

  “See Pontus, my Reds have taken the
lead.”

  Damon watched as one of the egg-shaped counters was moved along a pole. The Red team had finished three laps while the Blue team had, according to their dolphin-shaped counters—surely a favorable sign—only completed two. But that was quickly remedied. Two more dolphins flipped down the pole.

  The crowd was going wild as the Blue team surged ahead. One of the Red chariots caught the wheel of a Green, splintering both from beneath their driver’s feet. The Red driver managed to slice the reins free with a curved knife tucked in his laces and saved his life. The Green driver was not so fortunate.

  Only one lap left and the Blues and the Reds had completed six of the seven laps. Damon leaned forward on the bench, silently cheering on his team. When the last dolphin sailed to the end of the pole hole, the only spot in the circus not filled with wild cheering was the Imperial enclosure.

  “The goddess Fortuna has showered you with luck this day,” said Quintus, anger lacing his voice.

  Damon forced a lighthearted smile. “Indeed, but her true gift came the day I married my wife.” He leaned into Julia, brushed his lips against hers, smiled as she returned the kiss. He was risking much with such a public display of affection but Quintus needed to be pushed. That tasting her again flooded him with warmth was an added benefit.

  “There are twenty more races yet to be run,” the Prefect all but snarled. “We shall see who is the best team at day’s end.”

  The early morning stretched into late afternoon. Though the enclosure had a heavy awning that provided a fair amount of shade, the heat of the day was still wearing. Damon studied the Prefect from beneath his lashes as he poured Julia another cup of water.

  She looked completely worn out, having had to endure Quintus’ constant excuses to touch her; brush a fly away from her hair, let his fingers linger there, sharing a joke and grasping her hand, murmurings in her ear that he made no attempt to conceal from Damon. His goddess handled it all with grace, even sensing when he had had enough and was close to beating the man with his fists. She’d sent him an imploring look, soothed him with a hand on his thigh and pretended to enjoy the day.