The Patrician (3 page)

The image of the fierce stranger flashed before her. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t a true vision, she assured herself, only a manifestation of her fragile state after months locked in this room.

Gods, it had all felt so real.

His expression, both angry and mocking, filled with a raw determination that intensified the power he already radiated. Worse, it had left her aching with a need she did not understand and did not want.

Releasing a shaky breath, Bryna returned her gaze to the lifeless dust of the courtyard. She could not allow madness to take root. She had to stay focused, keep her wits sharp, for there was only one thing getting her through each miserable day—the thought of escape. She would not allow some figment of her overwrought imagination to distract her from that objective.

“And how is my oracle this fine afternoon?”

The oily voice of her master snatched her back to the hot, dusty reality of her cell. Bryna muttered a curse beneath her breath. She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts, she’d not heard Coeus enter the room. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, the rotund, ugly bastard would go away.

The acrid stench of the Syrian’s filthy body burned her nostrils. Bryna cracked open one eye to discover him standing so close she could see the black rot of his teeth. She stiffened as he leaned into her, greasy hair brushing across her cheek as he looked past her out the window. Nausea roiled in the pit of her stomach. Bile burned the back of her throat. By
Dagda
, the man was foul.

“Ah, you are watching Eshe at work.” He ran a clammy hand down her arm. An assortment of gaudy rings bit into the thick flesh of his tuberous fingers. Her skin crawled and it took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to react to his touch. “My proud beauty. Perhaps someday you will earn your keep as Eshe and the others do.”

“Defilement would cost me my gift...and you much coin,” Bryna reminded him, keeping her gaze directed at the courtyard.

His hand fell away and an ominous silence filled the room. Bryna forced herself to remain still. Perhaps insanity had come after all, pushing her to foolishly risk Coeus’ wrath. He was not a benevolent master. The slightest bit of defiance from any of his slaves brought his lash across their back, days without food or at least twice since her arrival, death.

He gripped her arm, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh. It hurt. There would be bruises, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of begging forgiveness. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

Coeus spun her around to face him and for an instant, Bryna broke the most basic rule of slavery; she looked him in the eye. Her master’s eyes flashed dark with anger. Because her common sense had not left her completely, Bryna cast her eyes downward and wondered if the meager bowl of boiled porridge she’d had this morning would last her till the end of the week.

“Ah, yes. Visions and virginity.” He sneered. “
Only the pure can communicate with the Fates.
Isn’t that what the slaver claimed?”

Bryna pressed her lips together in a tight line. Yes, that was what the slaver had told Coeus. Words repeated directly from her brother, who had somehow convinced their captors that violating her would cause her to lose her clairvoyant skills. Bran had neglected to tell them one thing—she had no control over her gift.

From an early age, she’d been able to divine the future—glimpse the nature of souls. It was a capricious gift, one she could not command. In the months since Coeus had bought her, she had found enough trinkets and predicted enough fortunes with believable accuracy to keep her alive.

But the Egyptian was an impatient man as well as greedy. Even Bran’s lie would not save her if her failures outnumbered her successes. Bryna glanced out the window to the doorway where Eshe had disappeared with her customer.

Coeus released her arm with a rough shove and began to pace the tiny confines of the room. He reminded her of a fat pig hurrying to the trough. “A man will be coming tonight to consult the famous oracle of Coeus.” He paused in front of her. “Do you understand?”

Bryna nodded curtly. The impetus to avoid beatings and other punishments effected on a slave who did not understand orders had given her incentive to gain enough knowledge of Latin and Greek to survive. Thank the gods she was a quick learner. “Many come to ask,” she answered.

He resumed his pacing. “Yes, yes, but for this man, you will relay very specific answers.”

Bryna risked a puzzled look at Coeus. “But I have not heard his question. How can I know what answers he seeks?”

He waved a hand irritably in her direction. “It doesn’t matter what he asks, you are to give him only these instructions.”

She listened as Coeus rattled off a set of complicated directions. He spoke rapidly, almost as though he were frightened. How strange. The man thrived on the power he held over the squalid little
taverna,
yet he acted as though he were being pursued by the
Fomorians
themselves, though there was hardly space in the tiny room for even one of the demonic giants of lore.

 He finished with a pointed look. She was certain she had not caught every word, nor interpreted half of it correctly. Bryna shrugged her shoulders. “I see only the truth. I can relate nothing different.”

Coeus growled low in his throat. Moving swiftly for a man his size, he strode across the room, gripped her chin between his fingers, and forced her to look at him. “I don’t care about the truth,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I care about what my patron wants. You will do as you are told or know that I will not hesitate, not for one moment, to toss your precious
gift
to Eshe’s customers.”

His threat should have caused fear but instead it sparked anger. Bryna lifted her chin despite the pain. “I do not think many of your customers would pay well to lie with a...” The vile word stuck in her throat “...barbarian. So do what you must. Decide for yourself how heavy you wish your purse to be. I will only tell the truth.”

The moment the words left her mouth she knew she should not have called his bluff. Coeus’ hand shot out, striking her cheek. The momentum of the blow sent her to the floor. Coeus stood over her, his face mottled purple, eyes nearly bulging out of his head. She pressed the back of her hand to her swollen lip and stared at the blood. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her mouth closed? Her careless words had brought him to the edge of his endurance. She would never gain her freedom, never find Bran. Not if she were dead.

“Is there a problem?”

Bryna followed Coeus’ startled gaze to a stout man filling the doorway. Dressed in a long tunic of black overlaid with a white robe of finely woven cloth, much higher quality than the
taverna’s
usual clientele, he stood with the arrogance of a wealthy man. 

A turban of white linen wound round his head, a long length of it draped in a manner so that the lower portion of his face was concealed. Black fathomless eyes regarded her as if she were nothing more than an insect to be crushed beneath his boot. A roil of evil emanated from him, so deep and strong Bryna imagined she could see the blackness of it filling the room.

“No master, no problem at all,” Coeus babbled, twisting his rings around his fingers. Tiny beads of sweat popped out along his upper lip as he released a short laugh. “Barbarians are a dense lot and this one is no exception.”

The man shifted his black gaze to Coeus. “Then I will leave you to make sure she understands. I will tolerate no mistakes. Everything must go as we discussed or there will be,” His pause was ominous. “—consequences. Need I spell those out for you, proprietor?”

Coeus shook his head so hard Bryna thought it might fall from his neck.

“No sir, no need at all. I understand perfectly. It will be as you wish.”

“Very well. See to your slave’s cooperation.” He made a half turn and then glanced back at them. “It’s always a nasty business when bodies wash up on the rocks beneath the lighthouse.” Raking Bryna with another disdainful glare, the man left.

It would be so much simpler to just obey Coeus. But the warning within had flared hot and bright at the turbaned man’s words. There was something more to Coeus’s instructions than simple deceit. To lie to this particular customer would bring about disaster and her life was filled with enough of those.

Coeus had gone three shades pale at the threat. He faced her and she prepared herself for another slap. Instead, he rubbed a hand over his jowls and narrowed red rimmed eyes at her thoughtfully. “I am not an unreasonable man,” he drawled.

Bryna swallowed blood and cast him a wary look. No, he wasn’t unreasonable, just volatile.

“Give this customer the message, exactly as I have told you and you could well find yourself free of this room.”

Bryna stared openly at him. Free? No more isolation? No more locked doors? Her mind raced. She’d be able to find a way out then, find a way to escape. Find Bran and return home. Despite her best effort, the hope that surged within her must have reflected on her face for Coeus smirked in satisfaction. Bryna didn’t care what he thought and the lure of freedom pulled stronger than her concerns. “I will do as you ask.” 

* **

His day couldn’t get much worse.

“At least it’s not a complete loss.”

The words, uttered by his steward, Myron, echoed off the walls, mocking Jared as he surveyed the empty warehouse. He shot the short, thin man a baleful glare. Myron quickly clamped his mouth closed, cleared his throat, and clutched the inventory scrolls closer to his chest.

Jared shifted his gaze back to the remains of his cargo. A half dozen square glass bottles from Gaul, having survived the perilous journey across rough seas intact, now lay in jagged pieces. A single clay amphora was wedged against the far wall, both handles broken off and wine trickling from a spiral crack at the tapered base. The liquid soaked into the wooden floor, mixing with a handful of pungent cloves from the Far East. A muscle ticked in his jaw. It had taken three months to import that valuable spice.

Closer to the door was a large reed basket, part of a grain shipment destined for Rome. Wheat lacked the imagination of his other goods but was a reliable source of income. Jared’s gaze skimmed the container. It might have once been round, if one went by the large, circular bottom. Now the sides were shredded and torn into an indiscernible mess. A rat, its plump, gray body bobbling as it ran, scurried out to the pile of spilled grain. It grabbed a ripe kernel, settled back on its haunches, and began to nibble.

An inventory worth five thousand
aureus.
Gone. Stolen. Spirited away as though a jinn had popped out of some Persian fable and whisked it away.

Again.

“Where were the guards?” Years of negotiating under tense circumstances enabled him to ask the question with some degree of calm. Inside fury coiled like an adder in full strike mode.

“Well, ah, Master, ah, one was found dead, a knife to his flank. Another wounded, bashed on the head with one of the
Arretine
urns special ordered by Mistress Pelicia for her daughter’s wedding gift.” Myron shook his head, sighed, tapping his stylus against the scrolls. “A lovely piece. Black
samian
, not seen so often anymore, and the detail in the floral decoration around the neck of the vessel—exquisite. Well I just don’t think it can be replaced . . .” He swallowed the rest of his concerns over the missing pottery under Jared’s heated glower. Myron cleared his throat. “The other two are missing. Ah, just like the others.” 

Jared gritted his teeth. Five times. Five times in as many months he had stood in the middle of a barren storage building or a ship’s emptied hold, the victim of phantom thieves.

“Bastards!” he growled, kicking the basket against the wall, scattering grain and rodent alike. The rat recovered quickly and resumed his position, his appetite no worse for the interruption.

Jared ran both hands through his hair, pulling it free from the leather thong that held the unruly length of it away from his face. “The wounded man, can he identify any of the thieves?”

“No, Master, he was hit soundly from behind and only regained consciousness this hour past. He saw nothing.”

“Damn convenient, if you ask me.”

Jared grasped the hilt of the short sword at his hip, slid the blade free, and pointed it into the shadows.

Slow, steady clapping filled the silence. “Well done, well done. Those lessons from that centurion were not wasted.”

Jared slackened his hold the least bit, but kept the weapon on its target, following a tall, lean man into the faint, yellow torchlight.

With the sharp tip of the sword mere inches from the pulse beating in his throat, the man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his unwavering gaze barely concealing his amusement.

He should at least draw blood, Jared thought irritably, just for the gratification. He lowered his arm and slid the
gladius
back into its iron plated scabbard.

A low sigh of relief preceded the man’s next question. “Do you always greet your friends like this?”

“I have no friends,” he growled staring at the ruins. Friendships were built on trust and with the exception of the pain in the ass standing beside him he didn’t trust anyone enough to be friends.

The man glanced at the scabbard. “I think I know why.”

“These are dangerous times,” Jared answered. He pinned Damon with a glare. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any welcome for someone you haven’t seen in a year?” Damon rubbed a hand over his throat then looked with exaggerated intent at his palm, squinting for emphasis. “The only danger seems to be in approaching you unannounced.”

Jared scoffed. “Your head is still on your shoulders.”

Damon’s lips lifted in a wry smile. “Thank the gods for small favors. Surely Alexandria has not become so lawless. The garrisons of Rome are known to mete out swift justice.” Damon paused, his gray eyes filling with regret.

Jared held up a hand, stopping the apology. He, as well as any, knew the cost of living under Rome’s all-encompassing power. If not for his friend’s tenacity, he would have been lost completely, consumed by grief in the years that followed that fateful night when he lost everything that mattered. The night his mother was murdered. With Damon’s assistance, he had decided to go on living.