Loukas examined her head while Quin finished washing her feet. The doctor grabbed another cloth and drew it down her arm just enough to see bruises along the length of it. After loosing her sash, he took a knife and cut a long slice in her tunic. Her torso was purple. Older, darker bruises peeked from beneath new red ones.
Quin nearly threw up. He’d seen more than his share of wounded, even dismembered soldiers. But for some reason . . . He set her feet aside and stood, began to pace. His thigh ached more than usual from the uneven ground and carrying Tia, but it had been worth it.
Lydia entered and gasped at the sight of the beaten woman. “Oh, Quin.” She wrapped an arm around his waist and patted his chest. “Don’t worry. Loukas can do marvelous things with God’s help.”
Quin scoffed. “Why did your god let this happen if he is so powerful and good?”
“I don’t think you’re ready to hear anything I have to say right now. Come, sit.”
She led him to a couch nearby.
He sat and rested his head in his hands.
“You care very much for her, don’t you?”
He didn’t respond. How could he answer that? He barely knew her, yet he was inexplicably drawn to her.
He jumped up. “I have to report to Gallus.”
“What will you tell him?”
“What do you think I’ll tell him? That I couldn’t find her. I’m going to lie.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“Would you rather I sent him here?”
“No, but I’m not sure lying is your best option, either.”
“I don’t know what else to do.” He shrugged. “I have to go.” He moved toward Loukas. “How is she?”
“A severely twisted ankle, broken and bruised ribs, lots of deep bruises and cuts. She’ll be very sore for quite a while, but I think she’ll recover nicely, thank Yahweh.”
“If she recovers, it will be due to your expertise, not his.” He snatched his cloak and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
18
“The Lord helps them and delivers them; he delivers them from the wicked and saves them, because they take refuge in him.”
Psalm 37:40
The handball game was doing little to distract Gallus’s mind from his frustrating land deal. He’d heard nothing from Patroclus for over a week, yet it shouldn’t take this long for such a prime parcel to sell. At least that was what the Greek had led him to believe. Thank the gods Gallus hadn’t paid him anything up front, or he would think the man had been telling him whatever he wanted to hear to get a fat fee from him for doing a lot of nothing.
Gallus smacked the ball with his open hand and sent it sailing. It bounced against the wall and flew back toward them.
Max was unable to return the serve.
“Twenty-one.”
“That’s enough for me. I’m ready for the baths.” Max picked up the ball and took a towel from his slave.
Gallus dabbed sweat from his face and neck and tossed the towel at Nicanor. The olive oil he’d applied before exercising snaked down his skin. Three games had tired him, and the baths would soothe his aching muscles. They left the court and stepped next door into the atrium of the baths, paying the fee at the door.
Gallus slipped his feet into the thick-soled sandals Nicanor set out for him to protect his feet from the heated floor, and then the slave removed his exercise clothing and hung it on the pegs on the wall.
Breathing deeply, Gallus stepped into the tepidarium. The warm, moist air calmed his muscles and his mind, and Nicanor began to scrape the sweat from his skin with the curved metal strigil.
Max raised his arms so his slave could reach his sides. “Cassia’s been trying to find a new investment.”
“Any luck yet?”
“Nothing as good as the girl. She was extraordinarily lucrative.”
Gallus smacked Nicanor on the head. “Gently! Scrape the oil off, not my skin.”
“New slave?”
Gallus grunted. “Just clumsy.” He gestured toward the exit. “Let’s move on.”
The pair moved down the hallway. Their slaves followed, carrying towels, oils, and strigils.
Men crowded the heated pool, but space opened for the duovir and his friend. They stepped into the waist-high water, and Gallus took a seat around the side of the pool, allowing the heated water to further soothe his body. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the stone edge.
From the fountain of cool water in the center of the pool, Max’s panicked cry disturbed his hard-won peace. “What are you doing? You can’t be in here!”
Gallus sat up to see Cassia, flustered and fully clothed, kneeling beside him. Leave it to her to make it past all the bathhouse slaves, guards, and escorts. Agitated males all around the room either sniggered or frowned, sending slaves for the attendants.
Cassia tried to catch her breath. “I was on my way home from Amphipolis, and I stopped by the marketplace. I noticed one of those visitors, the tall one.”
“And?”
“And he was buying opium and bandages.”
“Again, so?” Gallus beckoned her to get to the point.
“Those are all supplies a medicus would use.”
Gallus groaned. “He is a physician, you know.” He laid his head back on the side of the pool.
“And those are the exact supplies our seer would need should someone decide to tend to her wounds. He would need to replace them if he had used his on her.”
“He could also have used them to tend to a myriad of other injuries.”
“What if she was only claiming not to be able to tell the future anymore, so we would only think her worthless, and then sell her cheaply, so someone, like the physician, could profit from her instead?”
“That is a huge leap of imagination.” Gallus spoke without opening his eyes. “And why would you choose him as one to try to steal her from you?”
“He travels.” Beside him, Max finally spoke. “He could take her with him and see a profit everywhere he goes. Far more than he does as a medicus.”
“And when did he have access to her to convince her to join him in this scheme?”
Large, well-muscled men appeared behind Cassia.
“I’m not sure about that yet,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.
“This is an outrageous accusation to make.” Gallus beckoned to the attendants.
The largest of the men knelt by the pool.
“She is my cousin. Handle her gently, or you answer to me, understand?”
He nodded and rose, then headed to the exit, Cassia and the others following him.
“Just one moment!” Escaping her handlers, Cassia sprinted back toward Gallus. “I still think he is treating her. He was with that Jew when he talked to her, and ever since then, she hasn’t been able to see the future. Either way, those newcomers are responsible.”
“If they have her. You still don’t know if any of these claims are true. We need to verify at least one of them before we proceed.”
The attendant closed his arms over his substantial chest.
“Can’t we at least follow him, see where he takes the supplies?”
Gallus waved a hand. “It’s your time. I can’t stop you from wasting it.” He glanced at the man behind her, clearly losing his patience. “You need to go, cousin.” His voice was softer.
Max scrambled out of the pool to follow his wife, but Gallus remained, hoping to reclaim the relaxed state he’d had before the interruption.
Even if Cassia was right, there really wasn’t much he could do. They could possibly file a claim in court, but it was doubtful the foreigners had enough silver to make good on any judgment.
Max and Cassia had enormous influence in the city. And yes, Gallus could use their support and their influence, but once elected as duovir for the census year, he wouldn’t need them nearly as much.
Still, she was his cousin, and he would do whatever he could to help Cassia and that fool she married.
Because family was family.
“You have how many brothers?” Tia adjusted her new tunic—a gift from Lydia—as she shifted her position on the couch in the peristyle. The afternoon sun streamed through the open roof, warming the late fall air to a comfortable temperature.
“Four. All older than I am. And a younger sister.” Quin’s smile surprised her. It wasn’t the grin he usually gave her in the marketplace. This was softer, almost sad. “What about you?”
“I have—had—one brother.” Her throat burned at the memory of Tancorix. Guilt set in as she realized she hadn’t thought of him in several days. True, she’d been understandably distracted, but still, how could she have forgotten him?
“Tia.” His voice called her back to the present. Had he called her more than once?
“What happened to your brother?”
“He was taken at the same time I was. We were both sold to Max, but Max sold him to someone else in Neapolis.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Then, one day, Maximus came back, and I knew Tancorix was dead . . .”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He just laughed it off. That was the first time he hit me, because I dared to question him about it. But he was wearing—”
Noise from the front of the house drifted back to the peristyle. Someone was banging on the front door, yelling.
Zenobia raced in from the hallway, eyes wide. “You must go! They’re coming!” She grabbed Quin’s arm and pulled him behind her. “Lydia says take her and go!” She headed for the servant’s entrance at the back of the house and opened it, looking both ways. “I will lead you to her workshop. Hurry!”
Quin grasped her hand and bolted. Thank god—any god—he didn’t have his uniform on, or his red cloak would be seen all across the city.
Following the younger servant girl, they raced down the alley between the rows of houses. Pain shot through her ankle, but fear kept her going until they reached a plain building built up against the city wall. No courtyard, no gate. No decoration of any kind. Small windows were built in a neat row high in the wall. The setting sun cast eerie shadows behind them on the stone streets. Her heart pounded in her ears and her chest burned with every heavy breath.
At this time of day, most people were safely in their homes, eating with friends, halfway through their third bottle of wine. Why would Max and Cassia be coming at this hour? Something must have set them off. Did Euodia tell? No. She would never do that, unless perhaps they beat her to make her confess. Loukas wouldn’t tell, and Quin was beside her, so it couldn’t have been him.
One of Lydia’s servants? They adored Lydia. She’d bought their freedom. They would die for her.
Then how? It was unfathomable.
Zenobia turned to face them. “I’ll knock, and they’ll let you in. You’ll be safe inside. No one would ever look for you here. Wait until someone comes for you. Someone you know. Me, Timos, Syntyche.”
“Understood.” Quin nodded.
A young man opened the door but frowned when he saw a Roman and a bruised girl he apparently didn’t recognize.
“It’s all right. Let us in, quickly.” Zenobia glanced up and down the street.
He stepped aside, and they filed in.
“Lydia wants you to hide them here.”
“Not a problem.” He beckoned them, and Zenobia left the way she came. “Whatever Lydia wants is fine with me.”
“I doubt any respectable Roman would come near here, but just in case, you can duck behind the dye vats here.” Smiling disarmingly, he gestured to several enormous vats of bubbling liquid. Purple, blue, red, and several smaller vats of other colors filled the back half of the shop. “Otherwise, you can relax. There are bowls of fruit and several loaves of bread on a table over there.”
They wandered in the direction he pointed. A small area off to the side held a pair of couches, and a small table with the bowls of food, as well as two pitchers.
Tia collapsed onto a lectus.
“How’s your ankle?”
“It’s all right.”
He quirked a brow. “May I see?” He knelt before her, his hand near her foot.
She nodded reluctantly.
He slipped his hand under her foot and put it in his lap. Ran his fingers gently over her ankle. “It’s swollen again. Running like that didn’t help it. You probably re-injured it a bit.” He frowned.
“Did I have a choice?” What did he expect her to do? Walk?
He set her foot down gently. “I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant I was concerned.”
She blew out a long breath. “I know you are. I’m sorry.” She leaned near and placed her hand on his cheek. “Thank you for checking it.”
“You’re welcome.” Grinning, he rose and sat next to her.
She almost laughed, even while running for her life. How did he manage to make her feel safe? A far cry from their first encounters. She leaned back against the wall.
“You didn’t finish your story. What happened to your brother? How did you know he was dead? Are you sure they didn’t just send him even farther away?”
“When Max returned from Amphipolis, he was wearing my bratir’s torque. It could only have been removed if—”
“I understand. I’m sorry I brought it up again.”
“It’s all right. You had no way of knowing.” The warmth of his body next to her somehow relaxed her, and the energy of the last moments dissipated, leaving her exhausted. She stifled a yawn.
“Come here.” He slipped his arm behind her, tucking her close. “Rest a while,” he whispered.
She shouldn’t. She should stay awake. Something might happen, and she would need to be alert.
But with his arm around her, it was easy to forget the danger.
It was nice to let someone else handle it, let someone be the protector.
Even if only for a few moments.
Quin stretched out his legs and leaned his head against the wall. When he’d moved to Philippi, his only goal had been to stay there long enough for the rumors Flavius had spread to die. To let the truth come out. To allow Vespasian to help restore his reputation so he could return to Rome.
Once there, since Pater had nothing for him, he’d have to provide for himself. With the money he’d earned from his land here, he would have enough to buy a respectable estate in the countryside. Nothing huge; just enough to settle down, raise a family.
But as much as he hated to admit it, Elantia was right. That kind of life wasn’t possible without slaves. Lots of slaves. And except for Attalos, he’d never really thought about their lives.
Attalos had a wife, and Pater had bought both at the same time. They’d never had children. As educated Greeks, they were house slaves on the estate. Demetria, an excellent cook, worked in the kitchen, and Attalos was tasked with teaching the Valerius sons. The other boys were older and hadn’t spent as much time with Attalos as Quin had, but spending nearly all his time with him from the time he was a child had bonded the two, especially after Demetria died. Quin’s heart had nearly broken for the man as he watched him grieve.
But how many of his pater’s other slaves had been separated from their families? Julius believed that a happier slave worked harder, and he generally treated them well, but that did not stop him from buying only the best, as he saw them. He fed them good food, provided decent quarters, even sent for a physician when needed, but all of that was only so in the end they would generate more for him—more profit, more comfort, more prestige.
And Quin had never even thought twice about it.
Until he met the slave asleep on his shoulder.
What kind of person did that make him?
A Roman. A Roumanos, as she called him. He could hear her saying it, the disgust evident in her voice.
Not only was he Roman, he was a soldier. A soldier who had destroyed villages much like the one she lived in as he served in the famed Legio Secundo Augusta, wiping out one village after another from Cantium to Isca.
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br /> Not her village, specifically. But what did that matter? He was part of the power that had come to dominate and destroy her world, the power that had no regard for any people, or culture—or person—that stood in its way of ruling the earth.
Including him.
So why exactly did he want so badly to return to Rome?
Rome wasn’t nearly as attractive anymore as the woman in his arms.
He was falling in love with her. Right now, he would give up all he had, which admittedly wasn’t much, to stay here with her. If she didn’t hate him.
For now, he would enjoy what was probably the only time he would ever get to hold her.
“Quin?” A voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked up.
“Timos?”
“It’s safe. They’re gone.”
“Max and Cassia?”
“Yes, they’ve left the house.”
“Did Lydia convince them Tia wasn’t there?”
He shrugged. “For now.”
Beside him, Elantia stirred.
If he could make himself not Roman, not a soldier, he would. But he was what he was, so perhaps he could protect her, or at least try.
She would never love him, and he understood why.
So he would be the best warrior he could be.
It was the only option he had left.
19
“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.”
Ecclesiastes 4:9–10
Safely inside Lydia’s peristyle, the weight of the room crashed in on Elantia. She should have known she could never escape. If only she could have kept running, all the way to her roundhouse on the coast of Britannia. In the corner farthest from the door, she huddled against one of the columns that supported the roof of the portico. Her stomach constricted. She doubled over, sobs racking her body.
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