The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance (3 page)

Who would champion them now?

“Please, mistress.”

Julia looked down at an old woman with rheumy eyes stumbling along beside the wagon. The crone clawed at her, plucking at the hem of her dress. “Spare an old lady a
quadran
to feed her grandchildren.”

Sympathy tugged at Julia. Despite having ample resources, she could understand the woman’s efforts to provide for her family. Had not the desire to protect her own set her on this course? Julia reached into the soft leather pouch at her waist. Kaj’s hand closed over her wrist. “Do that and you’ll have the whole mob swarming us.”

“You exaggerate, Kaj. She is one old woman.”

Lips pressed together in displeasure, Kaj released her arm. Withdrawing a small bronze coin she pressed it into the woman’s hand. A throng of people materialized out of the shadows and surrounded the wagon.

“Alms! Alms for a cripple,” cried a man with a dirty rag wrapped around his eyes.

The wagon began to rock back and forth as people banged on the sides, calling out their wants, their needs. Julia watched wide-eyed as Kaj used the end of the reins to lash a scrawny urchin off the side step. The mules, startled by the crush of people, began to bray in protest, straining at their yoke and bucking their hindquarters.

Caught up in the fervor, the crowd began to jostle the wagon in earnest. Julia held on to the narrow bench as the vehicle swayed violently. She gasped when a beggar climbed up next her, reaching for her purse. Kaj’s beefy fist bloodied the fellow’s nose but not before he managed to snatch the pouch.

Kaj swore and lifted the reins, snapping them down across the mule’s backs. The frightened animals lurched forward, sending the rabble scrambling to avoid being run over by the heavy conveyance. With the roar of the mob ringing in her ears, Kaj turned right and headed toward the enclave of luxurious homes nestled on the Palatine Hill.

Julia ran a trembling hand over her skirt. “Not one word Kaj.”

“I say nothing, mistress,” he answered in that deep voice that always managed to make her feel chagrined without offending. “I would never say that showing kindness to those vagrants almost got us killed.”

Heart still pounding from the near catastrophe, she remembered their passenger. She glanced back at the solid wall behind her. “Do you think he was injured? We were very nearly toppled.”

Her servant’s mouth drew into a tight line. “He’s probably robbed half of the ne’er-do-wells in the city and murdered the rest.”

Julia twisted her ring. Kaj’s argument was strong. The man had been about to be crucified. Only the most notorious criminals warranted that type of punishment. And she was bringing him into her home.

Into her life.

Kaj took encouragement from her silence. “The Tiber is only a short distance...”

Julia laid a hand on the massive arm holding the reins. “I’ve made my decision,” she said with more conviction than she felt. “Kaj. I need your support in this.”

Kaj’s face fell. “There has to be another way.”

She squared her shoulders. “You know the circumstances. There is no other solution.” She glanced anxiously back at the wagon. She only wished there was. “I will do what needs to be done to protect the family and preserve the Manulus honor.” Save her from a life of oppression beneath the rule of a man. “And he will help me do it.”

A sharp slap of the reins urged the mules forward as Kaj muttered. “Zeus help us.”

*****

Moving as slowly as he could, for he was certain his head was falling off, Damon rolled onto his back, wincing when the rough, stone floor made contact with his torn back. He blinked at the muted light shining through a narrow window. The dawn of the day had just broken, if the sparrows he heard chirping outside were any indication. As a boy, he used to feed the birds outside his master’s
domus
. He glanced down at his bound feet and tested the strength of the ropes binding his wrists. The sparrows would have to fend for themselves today.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he recalled the night’s trip. After being thrown into the cramped quarters of the coach, he had passed out, roused briefly when the vehicle had begun to sway violently. Fighting the nausea and the pain from a new lump when his head had smacked into a wooden brace, he’d slipped back into oblivion.

It wasn’t until the door flew open and cool night air washed over him that Damon had awakened. The behemoth called Kaj had grabbed him by his bound ankles, dragged him out the door and hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. What blood he had left—and it was precious little—rushed to his head, obliterating most of his hearing, but he had heard the soft whisper of the goddess instructing her minion to give him food and water. He had tried to twist around, to see where she was, but Kaj cursed and jostled him in warning before striding off at a quick pace.

From his vantage point, all Damon had been able to make out was hard—packed dirt which changed into a floor of smooth clay tiles, which turned into a mosaic that depicted a blue—tinted Poseidon chasing three distorted dolphins with a broken trident.
An odd choice of design for a goddess to have in her Olympian palace.
But he allowed his perceptions could have been a bit skewed from repeated blows to the head, the total of which Kaj added to when he’d swung sharply around a corner, grazing Damon’s head against a marble column.

The pirate had deposited him none too gently on the floor of his new prison, muttered that he wasn’t about to wake up the household servants in the middle of the night for the likes of a criminal. And so he’d left Damon as he was. The sound of the door slamming shut and a bolt sliding into place was the last he remembered.

Damon wriggled onto his left side. The corners of his mouth were raw from the gag, his back burned like the fires of Hades, the muscles of his arms screamed for release, his hands and feet were numb and his addled mind scrambled to make some sense of what had happened.

He’d been saved from a horrible death. While he was grateful, the realization that he was once again in debt to someone for his life brought a surge of disgust to his gut. His past experience with that particular scenario had never been advantageous for him.

Then a goddess—no, a woman, he corrected—a simple, human woman with silken, honey curls, soft curves and a defiant tilt to her chin had bribed his captors to release him and brought him--where? To her temple? There had been no heavy scent of incense, and he hadn’t seen an altar suitable for human offerings—which relieved his mind a bit. Then where?

He scanned the small, neat room. Too clean to be a prison though he most certainly was a prisoner. Before he could pursue that line of thought, the door to the room creaked open. Angling his head upward, he found Kaj filling the doorway with his bulk.

The huge man took two steps in, closed the door firmly behind him. Balancing a wooden tray he carried with more grace than one would imagine possible for a man of his size, he walked past Damon and set it on a square table wedged into the corner of the room. The scent of warm, fresh bread filled Damon’s nostrils, eliciting a loud rumble from his stomach.

Arching a brow at the sound, the man ambled back and planted his feet inches from Damon’s face.

Damon fought the swell of humiliation that bubbled up and threatened to choke him. Here he lay, trussed and completely powerless under the cold perusal of a scowling colossus—damn, his legs were massive, like tree trunks wrapped in leather—completely at his mercy.

Kaj crouched beside him and raked him with a disdainful gaze. “My mistress is no fool, yet she has surely lost her mind dragging the likes of you into her home.”

Damon watched him warily.
Keep your eye on the enemy, the better to learn their weaknesses.

A sound theory, but right at the moment the weakness appeared to be all on his part. The balance shifted even more in favor of his captor when Kaj withdrew a curved knife from his belt, slanting it to ensure Damon could see the entire length of it.

The pirate studied the weapon, first running a finger along its length before flicking a thumb across its honed edge. He didn’t even flinch when a drop of blood welled up on the pad of skin.

Damon followed the man’s motions, his gaze lingering on the glinting blade before raising it to meet the pirate’s cold, blue eyes. It was there, in that icy stare—the man wanted Damon dead.

Swallowing against the knot of fury in his throat, Damon refused to lower his gaze. The logical part of his brain said that a considerable amount of coin and effort had gone into obtaining his release, the purpose of which remained to be seen. Killing him before that purpose was achieved would be illogical.

But something in that unwavering cerulean gaze told him the pirate might not be a logical man.

Damon kept his gaze locked on Kaj, even as the cretin leaned forward, angling the knife against his throat. Damon tightened his jaw, refused to react against the sting of the blade nicking his skin. A measure of respect flashed across the man’s face before being absorbed into his perpetual scowl.

“Say one word before you are given permission, and I’ll cut the tongue from your head. Do you understand?” he said in accented Latin.

Damon gave a curt nod. The blade sliced through the gag. With two quick flicks of the knife, the ropes binding his wrists and ankles were gone, too.

Blood rushed into his extremities and Damon wondered if Kaj would consider a groan speaking. He pushed himself with great effort into a sitting position, stretched the stiffness from his limbs and massaged the numbness from his hands.

“There is bread and cheese on the tray, wine as well as water. Remain silent. Alert no one to your presence.” Kaj moved to the door. Turning he locked his gaze on Damon’s. “Remember, the Tiber is not far away.”

Damon stared after the man long after the iron—bound door was closed and locked, waited for the tingling to subside in his legs before he tried to move. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. A mysterious goddess and a giant spewing cryptic threats. A strange combination and in one that he, fortunate man that he was, somehow played a role.

He stumbled over to the table, grabbed the goblet of wine and drank it in one long swallow. He wiped his throat, studied the smear of blood on his fingers as he considered the pieces of the puzzle. There was no choice but to play out their game, but one important thing the goddess and giant would soon learn.

Damon Primax was very good at games.

S
quinting at the image in the polished silver of the mirror, Julia thought she had discovered the answer to her problems. One look at that tired, pinched, pale face and any suitor knocking on her door would dash to the Captoline Hill and toss themselves from the Tarpeian rock.

She should be so fortunate.

Taking a bit of powder from the case on her dressing table, she dabbed some beneath her eyes. She leaned back in her chair and sighed. It was useless. The dark shadows left by too little sleep and too much worry were still there.

In truth, she had not slept through the night since the arrival of her father’s letter. It wasn’t a simple task to explain away the prolonged absence of a Roman Senator—or to hide a daughter’s confused and broken heart. She’d managed well enough for a time, drawing on the strength of generations of Manulus women. But now that formidable trait was beginning to waver beneath patrician society’s scrutiny.

The casual inquiries of friends and associates asking after Octavian’s health were turning into more pointed questions about the neglect of his Senatorial duties. Rumors were spreading about his disappearance—rumors that she and her family had been abandoned.

Julia picked up an ivory comb and ran it through her hair which fell in loose curls around her shoulders. With no immediate male relative to offer protection, she and her family were vulnerable. If the truth of her father’s absence became known she could very well be assigned a guardian by the Emperor. The fate of her household would lie in the hands of a stranger.

Already the jackals had started to gather. Every eligible man in the city and a few who weren’t had begun to court her, pledging their hearts. A few had even managed to hide their interest in the Manulus wealth.

Quintus Marcellus had not even tried.

The Urban Prefect of Rome. Oh, he was handsome, the very likeness of Apollo himself if you were to believe the gossips. Julia often wondered if the Prefect himself had not started the rumor. He was vain and arrogant and no amount of feigned concern for her plight could hide it. He was, quite possibly, the most pompous ass Julia had ever encountered and within patrician society, that was very telling.

His first visit had taken her by surprise, given that the Prefect was not favored by her father. There had been no choice but to welcome him, not if she wanted to maintain the pretense of normalcy. Quintus had been very solicitous, expressing his concern and offering to see to her father’s affairs. Even now she could recall the undisguised anger in his eyes when she had declined.

He had scoffed at Julia’s assurances that she had matters well in hand. His reaction had led her to voice her disappointment—in the polite manner of a proper Roman lady—that he would hold such an unenlightened view. She’d sensed an immediate increase in his rancor and realized just how delicate a line she walked.

Julia straightened the jars on the table and inhaled deeply. It was never a wise choice to offend an individual as powerful as the Prefect of Rome
but
that same unfaltering Manulus strength included a tendency to speak one’s mind.

The injustice of her situation made it difficult to hold her tongue. While some women in Rome enjoyed a measure of personal freedom in tending to their affairs, societal expectations placed a woman under the control of her father or a husband. Women had their role, tending to hearth and home, bearing children for the glory and honor of the
pater familia
.

Her parents had raised her differently, educated her to think for herself, taught her how to be self-sufficient. If she had been tainted, as Quintus had accused, it had been by the love, commitment and mutual respect her mother and father had shared. Theirs had been, as the philosopher Plato might say, the true form of a marriage. For all the wonder of it. Roman propriety had her trapped against a wall like a mouse and Quintus was the cat.