“I’ll tell you later.” He rubbed his hands together and looked up and down the stoa. “Looks like nearly everyone has gone. We may as well close for the day.”
“That’s all right with me. I’m starving.”
“It’s warm for this time of year.” Max unclasped his cloak.
Tia placed first one stool, then the other on top of the table. When she turned, she saw it.
There could be no mistaking it. It was one of a kind. It was handmade. There wasn’t another like it in the world.
Max wore Tancorix’s torque around his fat neck. The ends had been cut off to allow it to slip onto his oversized neck, then a clasp and chain had been added to close it.
Fury roared up within her, filling her and spilling out in an uncontrollable rush. She lunged at him. “Where did you get this?” The scream tore from her throat.
Cassia grabbed her around the waist, pulling her from Max.
Her face burned as Max slapped her. She would have fallen had Cassia still not had a death grip on her. Still she grabbed for him, though he stayed beyond reach.
“That belongs to my brother! It cannot come off unl-unless . . .”
“Max?” Cassia loosened her grip slightly.
“The man we sold the boy to said he was . . . problematic. He kept trying to run away.”
“So they killed him?” Through blurry vision, she could see people crowded around their stall, gawking at the screeching, rebellious slave.
She didn’t care.
“All you had to do was bring him here. He was running to me!”
“Why should I spend coin on a useless laborer?”
“You spent it on his gold fast enough.” She charged at him again, only to be yanked back. Her breath forced from her chest, she coughed until she slumped to the tile floor. She laid her head on her arms. Her throat burned, her eyes stung.
Pain exploded in her stomach. Again. Again. She opened her eyes enough to see Max’s sandaled foot kick her once more. She pulled her knees up to ward off the blow, but then his feet landed on her shins.
“Enough!” Cassia’s voice cut through the agony. “If she can’t walk tomorrow, she can’t work.”
Max knelt next to her, the fat of his torso spilling over his knees.
“Do you not understand what it means to be a slave? I know you had them in Britannia.”
They did, but not like this. Only to work off debt.
“Your life will never be the same. You have no control over anything. Neither did your brother. You are never to speak to me like this again. You are not to question me about anything. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You go nowhere unless directed to. Are these instructions in any way unclear?”
She started to shake her head but the pain was too great. “No.” Her voice was barely audible, even to herself.
“How are you to address me?”
“No, Domine.”
“Excellent. Now get up.” Disdain dripped from his voice.
The blood caught in the creases of her bratir’s torque now achingly obvious, she shoved down the nausea.
He stood and turned from her.
She took a moment catch her breath. Slowly, agonizingly, she pushed herself to her hands and knees, pulled up one knee, then the other, and rose. Each movement sent excruciating pain to every muscle of her body.
“Now clean up the mess you made, so we can go.”
What mess? She looked behind her. She must have kicked the stools and table in her rage.
Her belly screamed as she pushed the heavy table back to the center. When she placed the second stool atop it, she held onto it a moment until the pain subsided.
At least the physical pain.
The pain of losing Tancorix would never go away.
At least not until she took her revenge.
Escape now was secondary.
First, she had to kill Max.
11
“She followed Paul and the rest of us, shouting, ‘These men are servants of the Most High God, who are telling you the way to be saved.’ She kept this up for many days.”
Acts 16:17–18
His hand firmly around the prisoner’s upper arm, Quintus descended the stairs. Philon, a slave, had been accused of defiling his master’s daughter. With several witnesses, the trial, such as it was, had taken less than an hour. Since death sentences could come only from Macedonia’s governor, the prisoner would remain here, in the inner cell, until armed guards from the provincial palace came to claim him.
Quin unlocked the massive door and stepped inside with the young man. The slave had yet to meet Quin’s gaze. Could he have done such a thing?
But it was not Quin’s place to question. He’d learned a man could do anything if pushed hard enough.
Philon collapsed on the cold, stone floor and stared at the opposite wall. He hadn’t said a word since Quin had led him out of the basilica.
Quin lifted one of Philon’s legs and placed the boy’s ankle on one of the many semicircular holes carved into the side of a wooden board. Keeping them near the center, he did the same with his other ankle. Another board with matching openings closed over the first, and Quin locked them together. He reached for an iron chain lying on the floor behind Philon and dragged it closer, and then he locked it around Philon’s wrist. Moving to the other side, he repeated the procedure on his other wrist, then yanked on the chain to make sure it was securely fastened to the wall.
All for a child too devastated to even think about escape.
He tramped up the stone steps. It had been a long night. Quin brushed the mud and grime from his clothes as he climbed the stairs. He’d need a cartload of new tunics from Lydia if he remained keeper.
He’d have to deal with that some other time. Right now, all he wanted to do was get some rest.
He snatched his cloak from the peg on the wall. “We only have three prisoners, so you can keep watch alone until Stolos comes.”
“Yes, Tribune.” Pandaros, his youngest guard, offered a half-hearted salute. “Would you mind if I left early today?”
Halfway out the door, Quin halted and turned to face the young guard. “Yes, I would mind very much. Why do you want to leave your post?”
He shrugged. “As you said, there are only three prisoners. Doesn’t seem like we need two of us here.”
Quin scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I’m certain I can find someone else to take your place.”
Pandaros brightened. “You can?”
“Of course. There are many men aching to leave the quarries. You decide. If you still want to leave, let me know and I’ll hire another guard.” He turned on his heel without waiting for an answer.
On his first week as keeper, a guard asks to go home early? Pandaros had been difficult all week. In fact, all the guards had been more difficult than he expected.
It was almost as if they were trying to make his job as hard as possible, but what purpose would that serve? None of them were qualified to be prison master, except maybe Stolos.
He climbed the four steps to his domus.
His slave opened the door before he touched it. “May I get you something to eat, Domine? You’ve had a long night.” He reached for Quin’s cloak.
Though Quin rarely saw the female slave, Epaphroditus had followed him around for three days now, whenever he was at home. If only Quin could convince him he really didn’t need anything. “I’m more tired than hungry. I think I’ll just go to bed.”
He trudged into his cubiculum and then dropped onto his sleeping couch. His feet ached from standing on stone all night. Even in battle, he was usually on grass, leaves, something not quite so unforgiving. He raised one knee and reached for the laces of his boots.
Epaphras was at his feet before he could blink. “I can do that, Domine.”
Quin pulled his foot back. “That’s not necessary.”
The young man cringed. “Are you not pleased with me, Domine? Have I not performed my duties well?”
Quin blinked. “You’ve done quite well. Why?”
“You will not let me care for you. This is my job.”
“I’m just used to taking care of myself. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I see.” He frowned. “May I please wash the mud from your tunic while you sleep?”
Quin glanced at his filthy tunic. “All right.”
A smile finally graced Epaphras’s face. “I’ll be right back to collect it.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
Quin removed his boots and tunic and set the soiled garment outside his door. No need for the slave to bother him again. He lay down on his bed.
As if he didn’t have enough to worry about. Guards at the prison who hardly worked at all, and a slave at home who barely left him alone.
Maybe he should get them to trade places.
Leaning against the column of the silver shop, Quin watched the new seer. The sun reflected off her golden hair, and a red sash set off her dark blue tunic. Every move she made seemed effortless, like water flowing in a stream. She reached across the table and cupped the cheek of the woman whose future she told, smiling gently. Apparently reassured, the woman rose and left to pay the Roman woman hovering nearby.
“She’s a slave, Quintus.” Lydia’s voice startled him.
He pushed off the column and turned to face the fabric dealer. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously.” She grinned.
“What does that mean?”
“You can’t have her. She belongs to Maximus and Cassia.” Lydia ambled toward the baker, a large basket on her arm.
“Who says I want her?”
“That ridiculous look on your face.” She drew a circle in the air in front of him.
He huffed. “I have no look on my face at all.”
“If you say so. But five young men in my house have married in the last ten years, and they all looked just like you in the months beforehand.”
He waited while she paid for the bread. His molded leather cuirass was restrictive after not wearing it for so many months, and he wriggled his shoulders, trying to gain some comfort. At least it wasn’t the even heavier, ceremonial metal one. He’d left that one in Rome.
“I served in Britannia for six years. With the Second Augusta under Vespasian.”
“And?” Her brow furrowed. “Do you believe you destroyed her village?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know where she’s from. But it doesn’t matter. We were responsible for destroying thirty villages in the south. We marched in and pulled down walls, sometimes burned whatever was inside. We did whatever was necessary to ensure there would be no resistance.” His stomach roiled as the sounds of screaming women and children, the sight of paths red with blood, and the smell of burning thatch ambushed his senses.
“Quintus!” Lydia pulled on his arm.
“I’m sorry.”
“Where were you just now?”
He didn’t answer.
Lydia halted and moved to face him. “It wasn’t your choice.”
He blew out a long sigh. “I suppose. I never actually met anyone my actions affected until now. Never thought about them.”
“We usually don’t until we’re forced to.” She started walking again, reaching the fruit seller’s stall. “Why don’t you come for cena?”
“I have to be at the prison.”
“Your many guards cannot handle it without you?” She sorted through various pieces of fruit, picking up some and sniffing them.
“I have to train a new guard. Besides, it’s only fair I take some night shifts as well. I never ask my men to do what I won’t do.”
“You’re an excellent leader.” Her gaze held his.
“Another night.” He kissed her cheek and left, passing the seer’s shop again on the way, but Elantia wasn’t there. Neither were her owners. When had they slipped out? After taking the steps to the upper level, he scanned the forum as he crossed it, looking for her blue tunic. He saw her near the temple, calling out, offering her services.
Though it was the opposite way he was headed, he ambled closer to the massive building, its two lions standing guard at the bottom of the steps leading to the landing. Max hovered nearby, ready to collect payment from anyone she might convince to listen to messages from her goddess.
He stayed several strides away, not wanting to interfere.
She moved easily through the crowd, from one person to another, chatting briefly with one, smiling at another, telling the fortune of a few, promising a longer session if they came to her stall. Always flashing an easy smile. Rather than having been brought here days ago, she looked like she had grown up here and had known everyone her entire life.
Finishing a conversation with an older woman, she turned and saw him.
He looked away, but it was too late. She had to have seen him. He slowly risked a look back and found her fixing him with a glare that would melt ice. Had she noticed him following her?
Deliberately but not fast enough to draw Max’s attention, she glided toward him. He aimed for the southeast exit toward the residential area, hoping to lose her among the alleys between the villas, but she followed him.
“Tribune!”
She knew his rank. Not good. How much exposure to the legions had she had?
He halted. Turned slowly to face her.
“You’re a tribune?”
“I am.”
“Were you one of Vespasian’s marauders?”
He winced. “I was.”
“And now you prance around here in your uniform, boasting about it?”
“I don’t mean to boast. I came to retire. I was forced to become prison master.”
She scoffed. “No one forces a Roumanos to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
“More powerful Romans can.”
“Maybe now you know what it feels like.” She glanced over her shoulder. Seeing Max busily engaged in conversation, she apparently felt safe to continue. “You still don’t know what it’s like to lose everything. To watch your home burned, your parents killed in front of you. To see your friends sold and sent to cities all over the Empire. To have what you eat, what you wear, when you rise, and when you sleep decided by someone else.”
He wanted to say something, anything. But what words could he offer that would take away any of her pain, erase any of his actions?
She closed the distance between them. Only moments earlier he would have relished the closeness. Her scent surrounded him. The hem of her tunic brushed his feet. He could see the flecks of green in her deep blue eyes.
But now, he wanted nothing more than to disappear.
“Stay away from me, Tribune. Never come near me again, understand?”
The morning had been long and exhausting. The visions would not come. No matter how hard Tia tried, nothing. Even worse than yesterday. No words, no images, no hints. Something was blocking her access to Brigid.
Something bigger, stronger.
It was as if a giant hand held back the information she knew was there, was rightfully hers. Keeping it from her.
Who? Why would someone do that to her?
Elantia turned to her owners. “I’m weak. I’m having trouble contacting the goddess. May I get something to eat?”
Cassia snarled. “Here. Go to the vendors.” She handed her a coin. “Hurry back.”
She wandered down the stoa, stopping at the fruit vendor. She fingered a fruit she had never seen before. Fuzzy, yellow-orange like the sun. Perhaps that would please the goddess.
“That’s a Persian apple. Try it. For free.” He handed her one and she bit into it. The sweet juice filled her mouth. They had nothing like this in Britannia.
She climbed up to the forum, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
Brigid, why have you left me? You are the strongest of the goddesses. I need you here, or I am in danger.
A walk might clear her thoughts, clear her way back to Brigid. Time for the afternoon snack
and then the baths was nearing, and the crowd was thinning. Many of the townspeople she had come to recognize. Some had become regular customers, coming to her for advice whenever a decision or question needed to be settled. Others she had never helped, but was still familiar with. Some she knew as visitors from Amphipolis or Neapolis.
That tribune stood near the fountain with some men new to Philippi—four of them.
One was definitely in charge. An older man, he almost seemed to be teaching them, right there in the open. A thinner man, perhaps a bit younger, appeared to be a man of some wealth, or at least education, if his clothing was any indication. Another with a full white beard and a soft smile was about the same age as the teacher, and the fourth was younger than all of them.
Tia wanted to avoid the tribune, but was drawn to the leader. He spoke with authority, but he was not dressed as a scholar. His clothes were made of common wool, not tattered, but well worn. He was fairly short. Next to someone like Quintus, or the scholar with him, he was completely unassuming.
Yet the other four hung on every word he spoke.
What could he be saying that was so fascinating or important?
She drew nearer, trying to hear the conversation, yet also trying to appear as if she weren’t interested at all.
Quintus interrupted the man. “But Paulos, I don’t understand. What exactly do you mean?”
“Everyone has sinned; we’ve all fallen short of God’s standard of perfection. You’re a soldier, right?”
“I was.”
“When a soldier commits an offense, what kind of punishments are there?”
“Anything from extra duty to execution.”
“And can he remain in the army without said punishment?”
“Of course not.”
“Right. Sin demands payment. God is a perfect God, and we cannot remain with Him, because we are not perfect. Our sins must be paid for. And we all commit sins every day. We all deserve execution, a death penalty. But even though we don’t deserve it, Yahweh declares us blameless through Yeshua.”
The closer Tia got, it seemed a force wanted to keep her away. Something, someone was calling her away. Brigid?
Sold Into Freedom Page 11