The Patrician Read online

  Sorrow crushed her heart every time, crushing it so tight she thought it would never beat again. She reached and caught his hand, slick with blood. But the gods relished their punishment of her pride and as with each reliving of the scene, Bran’s hand slipped from her grasp and he faded into the shadows. And every time she squeezed her eyes shut against a rush of hot tears and the fresh pain of losing her brother again.

  Dropping her head against the ledge Bryna wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them tight against her chest, desperate to stop the quivering in her limbs. The vision always ended there, with the weight of guilt crushing her. But not this time. This time the vision had continued.

  There had been a momentary confusion when Bryna had realized she was lying on a goose down pallet instead of the blood soaked ground. She’d glanced down at a length of turquoise material draped across one of her thighs, followed the flow of it between her legs, over the flat plane of her stomach, just covering the swell of her breasts. Lifting the fabric with one hand, she marveled at the way the cool silk rippled like water through her fingers. It was unlike any cloth she’d ever seen. Certainly not practical like the woolen dresses the women of her clan wore.

  As Bryna continued to admire the coverlet, a sudden shift in the air sent a shiver skittering across her bare skin. Anxious, she peered into the white mist surrounding the bed, her breath catching as the dark figure of a man emerged from the fog.

  Watching him approach had held her in thrall, his graceful stride that of a hungry predator and wondered why desire to see more overshadowed the fear seizing her chest.

  He paused beside the pallet. Bryna tilted her head to look up at him, noted the proud set of his shoulders, the wide chest that tapered to a narrow waist and long, well-muscled, powerful legs. Though he wore no armor and carried no weapons he exuded the raw power of a warrior. He was handsome but not in the refined way her Roman captors immortalized in their statues of marble. No, his was a rugged attractiveness, all angles and strength with the bearing of royalty.

  Bryna’s gaze lingered on his mouth, so full and sensual that she licked her lips for the want of a taste. Hair, blacker than a moonless night matched the shadow of stubble on his square jaw, thick curls of it brushing the broad expanse of his shoulders. His only flaw came from a thick, puckered, crescent-shaped scar on his left temple. Even as she wondered who had dared to mar his beauty, she became aware of the power that pulsed from within him. Power that reached out with remarkable ease to encompass everything in his path. Including her.

  But it was his eyes that unnerved her. The color of molten gold, he pinned her with a look so full of fire that it seared her to the core. Try as she might, Bryna could not pull her gaze away even when he knelt beside the bed. A wolfish smile played on his lips, as he raked her with that smoldering gaze.

  He smelled of sandalwood and sea but it was the scent of pure male that caused Bryna’s pulse to race. The overwhelming sense that he was her doom had her trying to scramble away. But the length of silk tightened as if a living thing, holding her motionless.

  Raising one long, lean finger, he traced a line along her throat to the deep valley between her breasts, following the same path with the heat of his lips. It felt like a trail of fire and she feared she’d erupt in flames.

  “I want you wet for me,” he murmured, his beguiling voice, so low and deep, reverberated through her core like the strike of a drum.

  Bryna cringed remembering the way she’d arched her neck, as if a willing sacrificial offering. She’d wanted to demand he leave, had opened her mouth to do so, and been embarrassed all the more by the moan that came out instead when he took one of her nipples into his mouth and suckled hard. Her breasts tightened at the memory.

  “Stop. Oh...please.” Words of protest or begging, she’d not been able to tell for they’d died in her throat as he teased her nipple to pebble hardness with his tongue. When he gave the same attention to her other breast, warm moisture pooled between her legs. He laughed.

  Bryna massaged her temples, angry that the blasted dream was so vivid, that her mind refused to let it go. The images flashed onward.

  So much had been taken from her, but she refused to give up the few choices she had left even in this dream world. Grabbing handfuls of his hair, pushing away the thought of how thick and luxurious and wonderful it felt between her fingers, she’d pushed him away. The hard golden eyes that met hers were not filled with surprise or disappointment, not even anger. He’d laughed again, the dark sound sending fresh waves of trepidation coursing through her as he took her arms, held them over her head and caught her mouth in a punishing kiss. Her body had reacted, wanting more, her blood on fire, flaming through her body. Her mouth opened beneath the onslaught, ready to meet his demands.

  The dream shattered.

  Bryna’s breaths came in short, harsh rasps. Cold settled in her bones, even as lingering heat pulsed between her legs. Gods, she wanted out of this fetid hole!

  She pushed to her feet, jerked the veil from her shoulders, wadded it into a tight ball and threw it across the room where it unfurled limply against the bolted door. It had finally happened. Six months of confinement had finally taken its toll—she was going mad.

  She rubbed her temples wearily. Coeus would not be pleased to discover that his prized possession had turned into a raving lunatic.

  Possession. Aye, in the eyes of Roman law she was now that. A possession. Bartered with less consideration than a farmer might give to his ripened crops or fatted cattle. No longer a person with thoughts or feelings or choice. A slave.

  Less than a year earlier, she’d never heard of Rome or the empire it was methodically carving out of the world. Éire dealt with its own. A land of tuaths, clans, led by chieftains, struggling to unite beneath one High King. Her father was one of those chieftains.

  Bran would have been one of those chieftains.

  If not for her willful pride.

  Bryna swiped at the tears burning behind her eyes, fought them back. She had not cried the day she was captured along with Bran and their kinsmen. Not one tear had been shed during the long, arduous journey to this place called Alexandria. Only as she’d watched her brother being auctioned, sold, and led away in chains, had she wept.

  And her captors had laughed.

  She took a deep breath. They’d never see her cry again.

  She began to pace. But it was getting harder to keep that vow. The heat and the humidity of this cursed Egyptian city were wilting. And the people—crowds and crowds of people. Even within the confines of her cell she was not spared the incessant noise of so many people. A din so loud even the crumbling stone walls separating the taverna proper from the rest of the household could not contain it. Drunken brawls rife with cursing in a dozen languages competed with bawdy banter from the clients of the brothel above stairs. Day and night, there was never a quiet moment. Bryna massaged her aching temples again. And now she was plagued with visions of a demon.

  A throaty giggle interrupted her thoughts. She walked the few steps to the lone window and stood on her toes, peeking out through the narrow aperture into the courtyard.

  One of the taverna’s prostitutes was leading a dark skinned man with a hump on his back toward the outer stairs. The girl was rail thin with limp brown hair that framed a worn and weary face. Heavy layers of powder failed to mask her peaked complexion and the kohl lining her eyes only accentuated the dark shadows beneath them, making it difficult to tell her age. The whore turned as she reached the steps and their eyes met.

  Bryna’s breath caught in her chest at the depth of desolation in the girl’s black-rimmed eyes. Her spirit was gone, broken into pieces so small that even with her sight Bryna doubted she could ever find the whole. A tremor of fear went through her. How long did one have to be a slave before reaching such wretchedness?

  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, on
ly 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 abou
t 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.