The Patrician Read online

  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.

  But the memories were still there, hidden beneath a guise of normalcy. The pain, the guilt would always be in him, unresolved. Jared fingered the silver medallion at his throat. He made sure of it.

  He motioned Myron to hand him the scroll with the warehouses’ inventory then dismissed him before he unrolled the parchment. “Rome and its justice have done little to assist me in discovering who is behind these thefts.”

  Damon began to roam the room, stooping now and again to pick up bits of debris. He paused next to Jared, a large shard of a clay amphoreae in his hand.” How many times does this make? Three?”

  He arched a brow at his friend. Odd that in his year long absence Damon would be aware of his previous losses. Still, he always did have an uncanny way of finding out things. He stared at the roll in his hand. “Five,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  Damon whistled low. “Five times? That has to be making a dent in your vast and glorious empire.”

  Jared grunted. A dent didn’t begin to describe the toll such losses were taking on his business. Five thefts in as many months had left his once bulging coffers hollow and empty. Soon, he would no longer be known as the most successful merchant in Alexandria.

  And he’d be damned if he would let that happen.

  He rolled his shoulders, a futile attempt to ease the tension gripping him. “I’ve taken every precaution.”

  “You may have overlooked one.” Damon draped an arm over Jared’s shoulder.

  He stiffened. He hated for people to stand too close. And Damon knew it, the bastard. He dug his elbow into Damon’s ribs, pushing him away. Unperturbed, Damon swung around to the other side and linked their arms. Had his childhood friend always been so bothersome? Pulling his arm free, he sent Damon his most intimidating glare. It hadn’t worked as children and it didn’t work now.

  In usual Damon fashion, he chuckled and stepped away. Sobering, he asked, “What precautions?”

  Jared ran a hand over the rough stubble of his chin. “I sent my agents out along the wharf and among the ships crews to make discreet inquires.”

  “Ah, yes. Discreet is always best. News of thievery makes suppliers nervous.” Damon crouched down and tossed the gluttonous rodent a handful of wheat. The rat stuffed his cheeks full and scampered back to the safety of his hole.

  Jared tamped down his aggravation and the overwhelming urge to throttle his friend. “My agents found nothing. So I sought out informants.”

  “Who took the coin you gave them and disappeared.”

  Jared nodded his head curtly. “Damon, you provoke me.”

  A slow grin spread over Damon’s face. “It’s a tiresome chore, but one that must be done.”

  Jared pressed his lips together, suppressing the smile that tugged at him. “After the third time, I hired men to guard the cargo from the moment it was loaded onto my ships at Ostia until they were deposited here, under lock and key.”

  “It would not be the first time thieves have posed as mercenaries,” observed Damon.

  “No,” he agreed. “But all of the men were hired from reputable sources. A total of six have lost their lives or were grievously wounded.”

  “And how many are missing?”

  Jared narrowed his eyes at Damon. “I’m fully aware that mercenaries work for those with the most gold. The amount I offered was quite generous. More generous than I could afford.”

  “Then the person or persons behind these thefts has a deeper pocket. That or the missing men worked for the thief.” He stood and rubbed wheat dust from his hands. “You, my friend, are being targeted.”

  “Your powers of deduction must be a great boon to Senator Tertius,” he answered wryly.

  A shadow fell across Damon’s features at the offhand remark. He picked up the shredded basket and tossed it forcefully across the room. The rat squealed and retreated deeper into his hole, yellow eyes glittering from the dark.

  Jared frowned. “What. . .”

  “Nephew! I came as soon as I heard.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, stifled a groan. He was wrong. His day had just become worse. Jared sent Damon a pointed look that promised more questions. Damon shrugged a dismissive shoulder and returned to surveying t
he damage, ignoring the commotion filling the room. Jared, unfortunately, could not. Sliding his gaze away from the rigid line of Damon’s back, he braced himself for the onslaught that was his uncle.

  Gideon ben Judah did not walk when marching was so much more intimidating. He did so now, crossing the storage room like Hannibal taking Rome, trailed by a retinue of slaves each with a designated purpose such as mopping his brow or straightening the hem of his garment. An important task given the expense of his gray linen tunic, belted with a girdle of interlocking silver chains. Gideon was a prosperous merchant and all who cast their gaze on him would know it.

  No one knew more about the merchant business of Alexandria than Gideon, and he would be the first to inform you of it. The most current trade pacts, tariffs, laws—not one aspect of business escaped his uncle’s expertise. How, without the benefit of his advice, could Jared have thought to start his own merchant house? Jared’s jaw tightened.

  But he had.

  And had done it well.

  Within a year he’d established new trade routes through the land of the Persians, where exotic spices were abundant and the prices inexpensive. Valuable contacts were established in a half dozen new ports, including a large share of the tin trade from Britannia. By the end of the fourth year, Jared’s own personal fleet had grown from two leaking vessels to ten finely crafted ships—three more than his uncle. He’d labored night and day, focused on nothing but his venture. By the end of the fifth year he was renowned as the most successful merchant prince in Alexandria. He had accomplished it all on his own merits.

  And still, the void in his heart remained.

  Jared schooled his features into bland unconcern. “News travels fast, Uncle.”

  His cousin Elizabeth glided out from behind Gideon. Jared’s gaze softened as he looked at her. She had grown into a beauty, luxurious dark hair, unblemished skin and expressive, mahogany eyes. Her talents at soothing Gideon’s blustering ways had gained her Jared’s lifelong gratitude and he breathed a sigh of relief as she employed them now. “You know Uncle Gideon, Jared. He has the keen ear of a bat and the wits of a jackal. How can he not know?”

  Gideon gave his niece an indulgent smile at her teasing then turned his attention to his nephew. He tilted his head back since he was a good five hands shorter, and met Jared’s gaze. “Was there nothing the scoundrels missed?”

  Damon stepped out of the shadows, bowing to Elizabeth, who blushed prettily at his attention. “Actually, we thought to bake a loaf of bread with the wheat they managed to overlook. Would you care to join us?”

  The effect Damon had on Gideon was immediate. His eyes went cold, his expression hardened. Jared could swear the temperature in the room plummeted. The two had always been at odds, which—given Gideon’s disapproval of Damon’s freedom—Jared understood. But he had never fully grasped the depths of the animosity he was seeing now.

  “Have the amusements of Rome been exhausted so soon, that our humble province is graced with a visit?” Gideon inquired of Damon icily.

  “Ah, well, Master Gideon, it is a fact that the diversions of the eternal city are vast, plentiful enough to fill a lifetime. Recognizing that I am but one man, I reached the conclusion that I must pace myself, lest I become depleted in my prime.” Damon’s gray eyes sharpened to flint. “I had family matters to attend to.”

  Gideon’s smile turned serpentine and did not reach his eyes. “Ah yes, and how is your dear mother? I trust her business prospers.” He looked at his nails. “A brothel of quality is rare indeed.”

  Damon curled his hands into fists. Jared slid between them

  and sent his friend a warning look.

  Damon flashed him a tight smile before backing down. He inclined his head to Gideon. “It is good to know that some things remain the same.” Damon grasped Jared’s forearm. “I will come back around tomorrow. We will talk, catch up on old times.”

  Jared nodded and watched until Damon had slipped through the doorway. Gideon watched also, a smug look of triumph on his face. Jared spoke without turning his head. “That was unnecessary and rude, Uncle. Damon deserves respect.” He raised his hand when his uncle would protest. “if for no other reason than he is my friend.”

  Gideon sniffed in well-practiced affront. “He is not of the same social class as you and well you know it. I fear his influence has been less than beneficial. Neta should never have encouraged your association with a slave.”

  The scorn in his uncle’s voice brought an image of venom dripping from a viper’s fang. “He is no longer a slave and I choose my own friends,” Jared replied. He set his jaw, bracing for wounded words.

  Gideon did not disappoint. Dabbing imaginary tears from his eyes, he sniffed loudly. “I only want what is best for you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Gideon didn’t have to say the rest out loud—Ever since that dreadful night when we risked our own lives for my dear sister’s only child.

  Jared massaged his left temple, tried to forestall the headache that always accompanied these confrontations. Why must everything lead to that night? Fatigue laced his voice and he recited the standard reply. “I have not forgotten, Uncle, and I will always be grateful.”

  Elizabeth stroked Gideon’s plump arm. “Of course, you have been as a father to the both of us.”

  Gideon tugged at the corners of his robe, straightening the blue corded tassels that devout Hebrews wore on their cloaks, a constant reminder of Yahweh’s commandments. His uncle’s tassels were as large as any worn by the temple priests, less an article of devotion than an advertisement of piety.

  Jared rubbed his temple harder against the penetrating pain building beneath the thick ridged scar left there by Rome. What difference to him if Gideon worshipped a God that Jared knew did not exist? A God who demanded devotion from a thirteen year old boy. Jehovah, Yahweh, the great I Am had refused to save his mother, and so Jared refused to believe in him. Another point of contention between them.

  Placated, for the moment, Gideon motioned one of his slaves forward with papyrus and stylus. “I will send a note to the Prefect.”

  “No, Uncle,” he snapped, ignoring Gideon’s affronted look. “Do not alert the authorities.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. Rome and its government had ruined his life. It was more than a challenge to deal with them in trade. He wanted nothing to do with their justice.

  “You have a lead on the criminals?” asked Gideon peevishly.

  Gods, he did not want to have this conversation. “No, not yet. They leave few clues aside from dead guards.” He gave a mirthless laugh and picked up a shard of pottery. “I might as well visit one of the oracles the Greeks favor, for all the progress I’m making.”

  “Would...would that help, sir?”

  Jared and Gideon turned together at the stammered question.

  “You there.” Gideon pointed to the back of the group. The slaves shuffled apart and a young boy, his hair cropped short, the lobe of his left ear cleanly split, a symbol of his lowly status, stepped forward. He held his hands clutched in front of him, a vain attempt to still the trembling that shook his body.

  “What did you say?” Jared asked.

  The boy risked a look up and then cast his eyes back to his feet. “An oracle, sir. Would that help you find the thieves?”

  “You dare to waste our time?” Gideon raised his hand. The boy flinched, his eyes leaping from sad and tired to fearful.

  Jared blocked his uncle’s arm before it fell and shot him a warning look. Gideon glowered back but lowered his hand.

  Jared turned toward the boy, gentling his voice. “What oracle?”

  “I know of an oracle, sir. A slave girl owned by Coeus, the taverna keeper. It is said she can see things mortals cannot. Why, Ife, the housemaid, swears she helped her locate a ring given her by her first master.”

  “A ring?” Jared repeated, hard pressed to keep the amusement from his voice.

  The young slave cast a wary look in Gideon’s direction before bobbing his head. “Y
es, sir. She had been wearing it while making bread. Many loaves had she mixed and formed that day. Only when she had finished, did she discover it missing. Ife went to the oracle who told her she would find the ring baked within one of the loaves. She even described the basket in which it would be found.”

  Jared raised one brow. “You would tell me that this soothsayer can name the ones behind the thefts of my goods?”

  “It is one of many tales of the oracles’ abilities, master,” the boy answered with certainty.

  Gideon waved the slave away then contemplated Jared for a long moment. “Perhaps. . .”

  Jared scowled at his uncle. Gideon routinely denounced such pagan practices. If a prophecy didn’t come from Elijah or his counterparts, it wasn’t legitimate. “Surely you do not believe in this superstitious nonsense.” He snapped another scroll open, trying his best to ignore his uncle, who began droning on and on about asset versus loss, consequences, returning to the family business. The more he ignored Gideon, the more he talked. His head was going to split wide open.

  “Perhaps it would not hurt to consult this slave,” Elizabeth interjected. “This Coeus would most likely charge only a few sestarces. That is certainly less than what you’ve already spent trying to catch the culprits.”

  Jared’s gaze fell on an entry for the special pigments he had ordered for the mural at his villa.

  “Jared, I really think. . .” continued Gideon.

  No more. “All right, fine, I’ll visit this oracle. It’s a waste of my time and coin, but I’ll go see her.” He’d agree to anything if his uncle would just be quiet.

  Gideon smiled broadly, his pleasure obvious that Jared had seen reason. His reason. Relief washed over him as his uncle swept from the room, his entourage in tow. Elizabeth’s smile over her shoulder was filled with apology and relief as she hurried to catch up.