Bryna pressed her lips into a tight line. It was not uncommon for farm slaves to work in fetters. Too weary to complain, the men held out their wrists to be chained.
Except him. He stiffened, resisted the pull on the collar around his neck. A mask of black fury fell across his face as he realized the intent of the overseers. The
vilicus
Baal, a vile and ruthless man, stood next to the blacksmith, laughing at the slave’s struggles. Baal was short, but solidly built and confident in his power over the slaves. Bryna loathed him, for he was every bit as vindictive as his ugly wife.
Striking a heavy hammer against a thick, iron cuff red with heat, the blacksmith lifted a set of manacles. Testing the links, he grunted, satisfied that they were sound. He nodded at Baal, who called out to two other guards, commanding them to hold the man secure. He drew a short knife from his belt and sliced through the bonds around the man’s wrists.
Bryna’s heart sank. Once the chains were in place, he would be unable to move freely, left to hobble like a lame animal. It would be devastating to such a prideful man.
The slave straightened his arms for the briefest second obviously relishing the movement. But as the smithy began to fasten the first cuff in place, he raised them and plunged both elbows into the stomachs of the men holding him. Taken by surprise, Baal’s grip on him loosened. Astonished, Bryna watched the man grab the chain and pull Baal forward. His fist connected with a loud crunch as it slammed into Baal’s jaw. Dropping the stunned
vilicus
to the ground, the slave spun on his heel and ran toward the open archway.
Chaos erupted within the courtyard, nervous servants and angry guards shouting and running like sheep in every direction. In the confusion Bryna slipped behind a post by the stable, watched as the slave changed directions when the courtyard gate was slammed shut. Silently, she urged him on as four more overseers came racing toward the scene. Every slave in the compound had stopped what they were doing, both fearful and amazed at this show of rebellion.
“Corner the dog by the garden wall!” shouted Baal, rubbing his jaw.
“Hurry! Please hurry!” she whispered, hope surging within her. “You can do it, you can!”
As if hearing her desperate plea, the slave veered away from the trap and ran toward the stable. Straight for her. Bryna could not move, her heart drumming in her ears as she watched him race toward a low spot in the wall. With his extreme height he could easily vault over the barrier. Her gaze flicked out at the endless stretch of open field and sheltering groves of trees—to freedom.
Bryna didn’t move a muscle. He was close, just steps away from escape. As he reached the wall across from her hiding place, Bryna slipped deeper into the stable’s darkness brushing against several lengths of chain hanging from a post. Startled, ready for an attack from any side, the man paused, swinging his gaze in her direction, locking his gaze with hers.
His eyes narrowed for the briefest moment, anger sparkling within their golden depths. She saw no recognition, but his head tilted to one side as though he were about to ask a question. Deciding against it, he started over the wall, but his lapse had given the overseers the extra time they needed.
Bryna gasped as two guards tackled him to the ground. The slave fought viciously, but fatigue soon overcame him, leaving him to the overseers’ mercy. She put her hand to her mouth, her stomach churning as she listened to the dull thud of fists pummeling muscle and bone.
In triumph, as though they had just won a prized trophy, they dragged the semi-conscious man to a wooden post used for flogging. It was a fearsome form of punishment and one that every slave feared and that Baal thoroughly enjoyed. She had witnessed one other flogging since her arrival—it had been horrible.
The slave’s arms were stretched high above his head and fastened with thick cords to the crossbars. It took some effort on the part of the overseers to bind him tautly enough so that his feet barely scraped the ground.
Baal snapped his whip in the air. “Gather round, you worthless lot. Learn well the lesson of those who dare challenge their master.”
Gods, she did not want to watch the punishment. Bryna eased herself into a doorway. No one paid attention to her anyway. She could sneak back to the kitchen, pretend he wasn’t here. Instead she was thrust into the throng of slaves who hurried to Baal’s summons. Caught in the middle of at least a dozen eager spectators, she was jostled and pushed until she stood directly in front of the pole, face to face with the defeated man.
His eyes were closed, his head limp against his left arm. His breathing was labored and he licked his cracked lips before taking a ragged swallow. Already a dark purple bruise, the size of a hen’s egg was forming over his right eye. Blood trickled down his cheek, disappearing beneath the ragged neckline of his threadbare tunic.
This is your fault
. Bryna hugged herself against the accusing voice in her head and averted her eyes, but her gaze strayed back to the man. The weight of disappointment at his failed escape was almost too heavy to bear. Volatile energy infused him and her awakened senses could hardly bear it. She trembled with its intensity, wondered if the others felt it too. But all she saw were faces filled with morbid expectation.
Baal, satisfied that he had the attention of the entire household, unfurled the scourge. Made of braided leather with bits of stone weaved into the tips, it was meant to shred the skin rather than simply slice it.
A deep sense of dread welled up inside of her. The
vilicus
drew back his arm. The whip whistled as it flew through the air. It was a shrill sound like no other Bryna had ever heard. She jumped as it slapped against his back.
The man's eyes flew open, locked onto her. Rage flowed from him, engulfing her with such force that she swayed against the solid wall of people behind her, who shoved her forward in disgust.
The lash hit again, peeling away bits of skin and slicing deep cuts into the man’s quivering shoulders. Something wet landed on her arm. She glanced at the sky. The hot sun was still burning bright, unmarred by rain clouds. Another drop fell on her cheek. She looked down at her dress, at the blood splattered there. His blood. Bile rose in her throat.
He did not cry out, did not beg for mercy as the lash fell again and again. His only reaction was a trembling of his fisted hands. Bryna was amazed. The other slave who had been punished had fainted after three strokes. His silence seemed only to infuriate Baal, who swung the whip harder. Two. . . five. . . seven.
It was only a matter of minutes, but it seemed an eternity for ten lashes to end. The slave's gaze never left hers during the whole ordeal. Bryna willed him strength, a meager offering compared to all the suffering she had caused. Not until the last blow fell did he give into the pain. With a deep throated groan, his head fell back and he slipped into unconsciousness.
The silence in the courtyard was deafening. The severity of the beating stunning even those eager for a good show. Baal was panting from the effort. He swiped at the fine sheen of perspiration that covered his brow, coiling the blood soaked whip into his hand. “This same fate awaits anyone who thinks to escape. Are there any who question me?” He scanned the crowd, then nodded, satisfied that a proper level of fear was held by all. “Back to your work.”
Bryna lingered as everyone else slowly drifted to their duties. Baal and the rest of the overseers returned to see to the shackling of the remaining slaves, leaving the unconscious man hanging in the blistering heat. She should walk away—wanted to walk away, needed to walk away.
Bryna clamped her jaw tight. She was not going to take the blame. She had done what she had to do. And yet, watching his suffering made her blood run cold.
Hand shaking, she swiped the flecks of blood from her arm. He would soon be toiling in the fields and she would be gone. They would not meet again. She brushed away her concern at the unsettling dread that coiled in her stomach and returned to her duties.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Eda worked them mercilessly and for once Bryna did not mind. She wanted desperately to keep her mind off the man hanging beneath the broiling sun. But her gaze wandered to his still form on more than one occasion.
“You, there. Girl,” Baal called to her as she walked toward the kitchen straining beneath the weight of an overflowing basket of vegetables.
He stepped into her path, scanning her from top to bottom, his expression sliding into a leering mask when he noticed the loose neckline of her shift. Bryna set the basket down, jerked the material closed, and bowed her head.
Baal reached out and stroked her arm, his fingers brushing the swell of her breast. “Follow me.”
T
he
vilicus
strode across the span of the yard without waiting to see if she followed. Why would he? She was a slave and he the overseer; whose symbol of authority hung not ten feet away, bleeding into the dirt.
She averted her gaze as they passed the flogging post and the limp form tied to it. It wouldn’t do for Baal to take notice of her interest in the slave. Her plans for escaping were nearly complete and anonymity was essential to her success. For that reason alone she dare not risk showing any concern for the man.
It had nothing at all to do with the guilt that sliced through her knowing she had brought him to this. Crossing her arms over her stomach did little to ease the nausea that churned her gut. Intent on ignoring him she did not see Baal stop and ran straight into his back.
He scowled over his shoulder. “Get in there.” He nodded toward a squat mud brick building. Gods, was he intent on completing his assault? Bryna swallowed past the dread in her throat and crossed the threshold into the musty interior.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light emitting from the doorway. The air smelled of dust and disuse and seemed to squeeze in around her, reaching in to take the last breath of air from her lungs. It reminded her with terrifying clarity of her cell at the
taverna
.
She whirled around, prepared to risk Baal’s wrath, the lash, anything to get away from the suffocating room. But his stocky frame filled the doorway, blocking her escape.
Dread skittered up her spine when he stepped inside, removing the leather girdle around his waist as he closed the distance between them. There was no doubting his intent. She balled her hands into fists and braced her feet apart, prepared to fight. He was not going to take anything more from her.
His husky chuckle dragged across her raw nerves. “So that’s the way of it? Perhaps that is where I made my mistake before. I like my whores to fight.” He grabbed himself. “Makes my cock like marble.”
“Baal!” Eda called hoarsely from the courtyard. Bryna blew out a breath, for once grateful for the old hag’s shriek. A look of sheer terror tore across the
vilicus
’ face. He barely got his tunic straightened before Eda stuck her head into the room.
“Baal, my love. What are you doing?” She paused. “I have been waiting eagerly for my husband to greet me after such a long journey.” Eda’s gaze found and narrowed on her. “And why is this heathen here instead of at the duties I set for her?”
“Eda, my love,” crooned Baal. “I was merely seeing our master’s business settled before seeking out my beautiful wife.” He pulled Eda’s skinny form into his arms and nibbled at her neck.
Bryna’s nausea tripled.
The hag giggled like a young girl, swatted playfully at her husband’s arm. She reached up, giving Baal a loud, wet kiss. But his diversion was unsuccessful. “Why is she here, my sweet?” Eda was all innocence but Bryna noted the sharp suspicion woven into her words.
Baal did not skip a beat. “There is a task that must be done and I hesitate to take the skilled workers from your side, what with the master and his guests to look out for, so I chose the barbarian.”
Eda’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What task?”
If she hadn’t been so filled with tension herself and in danger of being blamed for her own rape, Bryna would have laughed out loud at the panicked look on Baal’s face. Evidently, the household slaves were not the only ones who feared Eda’s wrath.
A broad smile creased his face. “Wait here my love.”
Eda did just that, drumming her fingers on her crossed arms, staring holes through Bryna.
She averted her gaze, concentrated on making herself invisible. Gods, why did she have to be the fortunate one caught in the middle of a husband and wife quarrel? Things couldn’t possibly get worse.
“In here,” shouted Baal from outside.
Eda just managed to move aside before two overseers squeezed through the door. Between them they dragged the slave from the flogging. They had him by the arms, his bare toes digging shallow furrows in the ground. Both wrists and ankles were encircled with the very iron cuffs and thick chains he had fought so hard to avoid. A deep throated groan mingled with the rattle of the fetters as the guards dropped him on the floor—right at her feet. Bryna gasped and scooted against the wall. A poisonous snake, fangs bared ready to strike could not have caused her heart to beat faster.
“This is the task I need the girl for,” said Baal, joining a skeptical Eda in the doorway.
“To tend a half dead slave?”
A snarl formed on Baal’s lips but shifted quickly to a stiff smile when Eda peered at him. “Yes, dearest. I had to make an example of the dog and as you can see, he forced me to use the most stringent discipline.”
Liar
. Bryna had seen the frenzied enjoyment on his face as he had beaten the man senseless. The
vilicus
had enjoyed every bloody stroke.
Eda shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t know about this.”
Impatience tinged Baal’s reply. “The planting is behind schedule and the master will be furious if all of the slaves are not fit and able to work. I need the girl to tend his wounds.”
Eda made a disgruntled noise then finally nodded. “All right, Baal, but no more than a day.” She shot Bryna a look that would freeze fire. “Do not dally, husband,” she said, raking a finger along his arm. “I have saved the choicest honey cakes just for you.”