They had finally won. They had broken her.
They had killed her parents, murdered her brother, sold her, beaten her, taken her goddess . . . she had nothing left. She couldn’t even fight back.
A hand landed on her back, causing her to jump. “Tia?”
That familiar deep but soft voice. Quin. She straightened, still hugging the column.
“Are you all right?”
“They’re going to take me back. They’ll find me, and take me home. Even if they let me live, I’ll never be free.”
“No. No, they won’t. Lydia and Loukas won’t let them. I won’t let them.”
She turned to face him. He was serious. He believed every word he was saying. But it was impossible. She knew better. It was ridiculous to even begin to hope. “You can’t stop them. You know how powerful they are in this city. Whatever they want, they end up getting.” She sighed, resigning herself to the inevitable. “I might as well just walk out there and go home with them.”
He pointed toward Max’s villa. “That is not your home any longer. You will never have to go back there, I promise you. I will stop them, whatever it takes.”
She drew in a shuddering breath, tears slowly tracing a trail down her cheeks. “No. You can’t. There is nothing you can do.”
He placed his hands on her arms. “Let me help you.”
She huffed, remembering the warrior she once was—the warrior she was no longer. “If I were on the battlefield, I could take care of myself.”
“I am quite sure of that.”
She shot a glare at him. Was he mocking her? If she had her dagger, he’d find out how well she could defend herself.
“I fought enough of you to know that’s true.” He smiled weakly. “But this is not a battlefield, and you’ve been stripped of your weapons, and you are vastly outnumbered. Let me be on your side. Please.”
It couldn’t be done.
“I’m a Roman. I know how to fight Romans. At least let me try.”
He had a point. Several points. She exhaled a long breath. “All right.”
Though he was taller than Max, he did not intimidate her as her dominus did. Or even as he himself had done before. Her heart raced, but not from hate, or even fear.
She laid her hand on the narrow purple stripes of his tunic. “Does this mean anything? Max doesn’t have it. Gallus wears it. His is wider, though.”
“It represents the kind of family I come from back in Rome. My family is somewhat wealthy and powerful, but not as powerful as Gallus’s.”
A tinge of fear pricked her heart. “Could you be in danger from him for helping me?”
“Only if he knows. He doesn’t, and I’ll make sure he never will.” He placed his hand over hers, tucking his fingers under her palm.
His heart beat steadily under her hand. She brought her other hand to his chest. “You’re not wearing your soldier’s uniform.”
“I’m not working tonight.”
She smiled. “I like you better without it.”
“I can still keep you safe from Max and Cassia, though, uniform or no.” Keeping her hand in his, he moved it down his chest to the dagger on his hip.
“Why would you do so much for me?”
“Because you’re my carissima.”
“What does that mean?”
His brow furrowed for a moment, as if he were trying to decide how to answer. “It means you’re very special to me.”
She laid her head against his chest, slipping her arms around his waist. He was strong and solid, like the marble columns behind her, and whether she wanted to admit it or not, it felt good. Comfortable, safe.
His hands settled at her waist. She pulled back to study his face. A long but faded scar ran from his left ear to just under the corner of his mouth. Another slit his eyebrow. Others might see them as flaws, but to her they were proof of his skill, his willingness to suffer for her, even if they had been gained on the battlefields of her homeland. Now he’d promised to use his blade to protect her.
His eyes dropped to her mouth. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.
Her lips were still tender, but his gentleness eclipsed any pain. One hand held the small of her back while the fingers of his other hand rested lightly on her cheek. And as she melted into his kiss, she tried not to think about the fact that she was falling in love with a Roumanos.
Quin prowled the hall of the jail, the feel of Tia’s kiss still fresh on his lips, even after a restless night.
Where was Pandaros? Late again. If that man made it until the next full moon without Quin sending him to the quarries, he’d be lucky. He’d been insolent, lazy, careless . . .
The door swung open, and the delinquent guard sauntered in. “Sorry, but I was—”
“I don’t care. Just get the cells cleaned out before I return.” He slammed the door behind him before Pandaros could begin his daily list of excuses.
Quin hurried to the shops on the south stoa of the forum. The sun had long passed the midpoint of the sky, and it was nearing the time when most Romans stopped working for the day and retired to the baths.
He desperately needed to purchase something from the shops before then.
When he finally reached the wine shop, Marcus was putting away his goods for the day. “Welcome, Tribune. How may I help you this afternoon?”
“I need an amphora of wine.”
“Of course. Are you hosting a meal tonight? With many guests?” He skittered his fingers over the medium-sized containers of wine on his shelves. “This is a very nice size for nine or ten people.”
Quin held it for a moment but shook his head. “No. One of those.” He pointed to the larger amphorae on the wall. “What about those?”
Marcus put away the smaller one and handed Quin one of those indicated.
Quin studied it a moment and returned it as well. “No. I want something even bigger. And the best you’ve got. Something you keep hidden, perhaps?”
The merchant smiled and pushed aside a curtain of silk. On the ground sat several amphorae, beautifully decorated, at least a cubit wide.
He leaned over and gestured to those on the very end of the row. “Ah, yes. One of those.”
“You must be joking.” Marcus scoffed. “That’s a month’s pay, even for a tribune. Who could you be entertaining that’s worth this?”
Quin said nothing. Flexing his jaw, he slapped down the necessary coins on the table in the center of the shop, the last of the money he had brought from Rome.
The vendor quirked a brow and started to pick up one of the requested containers.
“May I?” Quin came alongside him. “I need to be able to carry it in one hand.”
Marcus frowned, but stepped aside.
He tested several, finding the largest one that met his stipulation. “This one.”
“Here you go, then.” Marcus set the jar on the table. “Do you want one of my assistants to deliver it to your house?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Quin picked up the wine, hoisted it to his shoulder, strode down Commercial Road, and then northeast across the forum.
At the temple of Jupiter, Quin ascended the gleaming white steps and crossed the portico. One of the servants hovering in the vestibule held Quin’s offering while he slipped off his sandals and washed his hands and feet. He started to go in, but the attendant touched his arm.
“Your dagger, Tribune. No weapons in the temple.”
Quin unsheathed the blade and handed it over. He felt naked without it. When was the last time he’d been out of his domus, or tent, without a sword or dagger strapped to his body? Yet it appeared he had no choice.
His offering in his left arm, he silently entered. His bare feet glided over the cool marble floors.
An altar laden with cheese, wine, and bread spanned the width of the far wall. In the center, priests attended a smoldering heifer, black smoke winding its way to the heavens. The acrid smells of burning wood and flesh filled the room.
&nbs
p; Quin gingerly approached the altar, surrounded by worshippers. When was the last time he’d made a sacrifice? At least one he actually believed would do any good? Maybe as a child?
He’d worshipped Jupiter when in Rome because it was required. In Britannia, in the midst of war, it was different. There were no temples on the edges of the Empire. Some of the more devout built altars, but he’d never bothered, never thought much about it.
Until now.
Now he would do anything to protect her. Even sacrifice to gods he wasn’t sure were really gods at all.
He knelt and placed his offering on the floor, then lifted his right hand to the heavens. What was the prescribed prayer?
“Hail, Jupiter, first and best of all the gods, who oversees all things on earth from the heights of heaven, and rules all of creation by the flash and deafening roar of the thunderbolt. Hear me, Jupiter, to whom belongs power over us and over our foes. Graciously lend me your ears as I reverence you.”
What came next? If he made a mistake, he’d have to start all over. “I pray that you will favor me, and grant me victory over my enemies. Visit my enemies, Max and Cassia, with fear and dread, for they practice evil and have harmed someone who is very dear to me. For these reasons, Jupiter, may you be pleased and honored by this gift.”
Quin rose, then he lifted the amphora, holding it with one hand as he snapped the neck with the other. “To you, Jupiter, I pour out this portion of wine.” He tipped the jar, and the wine splattered over the marble floor, leaving a blood-red trail as it made its way to a drain under the altar.
He set the container aside and waved one palm over the spilled wine, the other raised to the god. “Now, Jupiter, strengthened and honored by this wine that I have poured out to you, I pray that you may favor me and grant me victory over Max and Cassia, and allow me to protect the one they have wronged.”
Quin backed away from the altar several steps and turned around. After retrieving his dagger and putting his sandals on, he stepped outside, then dropped onto the steps.
Did that do any good? Would his prayers reach Jupiter? Could the sky god really do anything? It was worth a chance. No one else could help Tia, protect her from those who sought to destroy her.
The only thing her domini cared about was filling their purses with coin. If that meant beating her when she didn’t produce enough, that was fine with them. He couldn’t let them hurt her again. He would do anything and everything he could think of to stop them.
If that meant pouring out a month’s pay of wine to a probably imaginary god, that was the least he could do.
Gallus rapped his gold signet ring on the door of the apartment building. Silence greeted him.
He rapped again. Still nothing. Tapped his foot. It was not wise for the ruler of the city to be seen standing here, outside a run-down insula in this less-than-desirable section of the city.
Then again, it couldn’t be good for Patroclus, either. He banged his fist on the door, then cradled it in his other hand. The door must be much thicker than it looked.
The same slave answered the door and beckoned him inside, glancing up and down the street before closing the door behind them.
“What took so long?” snapped Gallus.
The slave led him up the steps without answering and left him in the atrium.
Gallus fingered the sculptures along the walls of the room. They weren’t nearly as nice as those in his office, now that he examined them closely. Probably replicas. Cheaper material. The tapestries were much smaller than his. Was this man really as good as he said he was?
“Magistrate!” Patroclus swept in from the other end of his residence, his gold-trimmed robe billowing behind him. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Obviously. Gallus moved to meet him, folding his arms across his chest. “I haven’t had any news from you in quite some time. I thought I’d come by personally to check on your progress.”
Patroclus smiled, an oily smile that made the cheese and bread in Gallus’s stomach begin to crawl up his throat. “As I told you, it will take a while for me to locate a buyer for a parcel of this size. As it happens, I am leaving for Amphipolis tomorrow. I have a number of contacts there who might be interested.” He still stood in the entrance to the hallway, hadn’t yet come fully into the atrium. Apparently, an invitation to the man’s office would not be coming this time.
“And why would someone in Amphipolis want property here?”
“They wouldn’t live here, of course. They would have servants work the land, and they would collect the income. Most of these men have been here long enough to have managers they trust and feel they can safely leave the property in their hands.”
Gallus couldn’t imagine ever trusting someone that much. But it wasn’t his problem. If they wanted to rely on some manager, let them. “If you take too much longer, I may have to reduce your fee.”
The smile on the Greek’s face tightened. “That would be impossible. You agreed on the fee at the commencement of our business. You put no limits on the amount of time you allowed me. You may, however, cancel our deal.” His voice was still pleasant, but it was clear there would be no negotiating on this point.
Gallus stepped closer. “Make no mistake. I am the duovir. Nothing is impossible for me.”
“Fine, then. I shall consider our deal canceled.” He turned to go.
Gallus fingered the curls on the statue of Augustus’s face. “I can always have you arrested, for dealing outside the bounds of the law.”
Patroclus spun back around, eyes blazing. “And I can always tell them whose land I was selling ‘outside the law.’”
He picked up the bust of the emperor and turned it over, examining it. “Do you really think anyone would believe your word over mine? I can have a trial started before the week is out.”
Patroclus took several hurried steps into the room. “And I can appeal to Rome.” He relaxed his shoulders, smirking. “My pater was Roman.”
Gallus clenched his jaw. He was a Roman citizen? A Greek like him? How had no one told him this? Then again, no one knew what he was doing. He set the sculpture down carefully. “You have your deal, and your commission. For another two weeks.”
Patroclus’s snaggly teeth appeared through his wide smile again. “Excellent. I shall see you in two weeks, and not before. Unless I call for you.” He whipped his robe around and disappeared down the hall, leaving Gallus standing alone in the atrium.
He found the door and ambled down the stairs. The merchant hadn’t even bothered to send his slave to see him out.
How dare he treat a magistrate of Rome like this? As a citizen, he should know better than to disrespect the ruler of his own city. Actions like this could come back to bite him sooner than he might realize.
Still, because he was a citizen, that limited Gallus’s options dreadfully. He couldn’t have him flogged or physically harmed in the slightest. He couldn’t put the man in jail, even if he were able to manufacture some wildly ridiculous charge. Citizens could wait for trial in their own homes. And as Patroclus preemptively stated, he could appeal to Rome before a trial ever started.
So Gallus would just have to shut up and suffer the Greek’s impertinence. The thought of 180,000 sesterces, and all that could do for him, would have to be enough to soothe his wounded pride.
20
“But their idols are silver and gold, made by human hands. They have mouths, but cannot speak, eyes, but cannot see.”
Psalm 115:4–5
Quin stepped through the door of Lydia’s domus and followed Demas to the atrium.
“I’ll tell Lydia you’re here.”
“Oh. I think I left my cloak here the other day.”
“I haven’t seen it, but I’ll look.” He nodded and left him standing by the impluvium.
Quin ambled through the room, stopping at the empty niche in the wall where the household gods normally resided. He ran his hand over the tiled shelf. Did Lydia worship no other gods besides Paulos’s?
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br /> “Quin. It’s good to see you.”
He turned to see Paulos stroll into the room, his ever-present, worn tunic now replaced by a brand new one, certainly provided by Lydia, although still plain, brown wool.
“May I see her?”
“Of course. I’d like to talk to you first, if I may.”
Quin stiffened. “About?”
“Did I see you exiting the temple earlier today?”
He’d hoped no one had seen him, obviously, but then again, he wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t meant it. He exhaled a long breath. “Yes. I did.”
“May I ask why?”
“I offered a sacrifice. To Jupiter.”
Paulos’s face was unreadable. “Again, why?”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“And that was the only option you could come up with?” The old man’s voice was calm, unaccusing.
“I didn’t think it would hurt.”
“I see.” Paulos gestured to a couch along the pool. “Sit with me for a moment, won’t you?”
Quin joined him on the lectus. Was Paulos upset, disappointed? Angry?
“Tell me your reasons for making a sacrifice at this particular time. I was under the impression you hadn’t visited a temple in many years.”
He jumped up, throwing his hands in the air. “They came after her, Paulos!”
“I know. I was here.”
“You weren’t with her in Lydia’s dye works. She was terrified. She feels alone, abandoned, and worst of all, guilty that she is putting all of us in danger.”
“No one here is being forced to do anything against his will.” He fixed his dark eyes on Quin. “Least of all you, I’m guessing.”
He huffed. “Of course not. That’s not the point.”
“And what is the point?”
Quin reflexively fisted the handle of his dagger. “I can’t protect her! I don’t know how. I’m a soldier. I fight. I conquer. I kill. So I prayed to Jupiter for victory over my enemies.”
“Who are?”
He had to ask? “Cassia and Max.”
Sold Into Freedom Page 19