The Patrician Read online

  Bryna stared at the closed door and tried to calm her racing heart. He was going to his death. And she had done nothing to stop him.

  As she watched, the door creaked back open. The turbaned man was standing there with an anxious Coeus peeking over his shoulder.

  “Kill her.”

  ***

  Jared strode along the cobbled path separating two single story warehouses. The area was completely deserted. Situated across the harbor from his own warehouses, he knew these half dozen deteriorating buildings had long been abandoned and were destined for demolition. A consortium of merchants, including him, had bid on the property to expand the number of berths open for ships to dock. But the landlord had balked at their offer, calling it an insult. Jared rubbed a hand down his face. The bastard stalled negotiations in a futile attempt to squeeze another coin from their coffers, a difficult task when that coffer was bare.

  He paused at the corner of the last building. By the faint light of the moon, he counted down five structures from the eastern entrance. The seer had instructed him to search the fifth building. There, she had said, he would find his answers.

  The seer. Jared’s thoughts drifted back to the cheerless room. He had expected to find a toothless hag with a hairy wart on her nose, wrinkled skin and an eagerness to share her one eye with others of her kind, cackling with glee at the gullibility of those seeking her counsel.

  But he had found no Fate of Grecian myth.

  Instead, the light from the doorway had revealed a girl, not as young as to be called a child, indeed she had possessed a woman’s full curves. His lips curled into a smile as he remembered how the thin material of her shift had outlined soft, rounded breasts that he knew would fit perfectly in his hands.

  Even in grayness of the room, he had discerned curls of firelight hair escaping from beneath a hideous red veil. Her skin was smooth as cream and more fair than any woman he knew— until he’d entered the room, then a blush had stained her cheeks, flowing down the graceful curve of her neck, deepening to a deep rose at his verbal jabs. His cock twitched at the memory.

  The only flaw in her beauty had been a cut and bruised lip. A burst of anger at jolted him. Who would mar such beauty? The answer had to be the fat pig of a master. It was the way of society, he was well aware, that a slave could be disciplined in any manner. They were property, true but he was opposed to harsh punishment.

  A burst of boisterous laughter snapped his thoughts back to the present. Jared placed a hand on his knife and leaned back into the shadows. The laughter dissolved into a slurred rendition of an ode to Bacchus. The drunken poets faded as they continued their search for liquid inspiration.

  He shook his head in disgust. He might as well be under the influence of spirits himself, chasing the oracle’s fantasy. He should be gathering hard facts, evaluating the pattern of thefts, formulating a plan to put an end to the criminal acts. It was what he did best. Staying busy, keeping focused on the mundane aspects of life. It kept the painful void within his soul at bay. Yet here he was, in the middle of the night, chasing apparitions.

  It hadn’t been his intention. He’d intended to listen politely, leave quickly and report to his uncle that the effort was just as fruitless as he’d thought.

  But then she had known about his boyhood prank.

  Upon leaving the oracle’s room, he had all but knocked a kneeling Coeus onto his ample posterior. Under Jared’s hard glare, Coeus’ blustering explanation of how he had dropped one of his rings in the dirt withered to a sullen silence. It did not matter in the least to him if the man had aught else to do than eavesdrop on the nonsensical fortunes told by his slave. Though why Coeus found it necessary to listen was beyond his comprehension, unless the slave risked his reputation with lies.

  There was his answer. The girl was a liar.

  It would explain her nervous reaction. He shook his head in amusement as he remembered the look she’d given him as if she’d seen a shade from the Underworld. Shades wouldn’t have had the same physical reaction he’d had when her hand had touched his arm. He would have enjoyed it much more had she touched him elsewhere.

  A liar. That had to be it. There were those who believed that lying was as elemental to a slave’s existence as air or water. Perhaps she had been promised a pretty bauble or an honored place in the brothel. Or, he thought wryly, a more attractive head covering.

  But he had gone to the taverna expecting no less. He didn’t believe in oracles, or prophesy, or divining solutions through mysterious means. But the girl did. A smile tugged at his lips. There had been no mistaking the fire in the depths of those green eyes when he mocked her abilities. Odd that he found that appealing.

  A hard chill shuddered through him. He brushed it, and thoughts of the slave, away. He’d wasted enough time. Making no attempt to conceal his movements, he strode toward the entrance of the last warehouse.

  A sliver of moonlight lit the way through the open portal fading quickly into total darkness. Feeling his way along the wall, Jared entered, knowing he would disturb nothing more menacing than rats and spiders. But they were large spiders, and he did not relish stirring their tempers. It would take only a moment for him to make a circuit of the room to verify its vacant state. He had sent word for Damon to meet him here and together they could get to the business of catching the thieves.

  He bit out a sharp expletive as his shin connected with a solid object. Crouching, he ran his hands over a large urn, tracing the bas-relief figures around the neck of the vessel. The twists and flourishes were floral. He pressed his lips together. He’d lay a large wager that in the light, he would find a black Simian pottery vessel suitable for one Mistress Pelicia.

  Edging around the urn, he fingered other objects; bundles of papyrus, countless amphorae, and what felt like a carved cedar chair he had ordered from a craftsman in Crete. A bag dislodged from the pile of goods landing next to his foot. Soft granules spilled over his toes, releasing a cloud of pepper dust that set him to sneezing.

  It was his missing cargo. It didn’t matter how the barbarian witch had known, but it did matter that he catch the perpetrators and reclaim what was his.

  He ventured deeper into the warehouse but could see nothing. Even the moon had disappeared, causing the doorway to dissolve into the blackness. No matter. He would just follow the wall with his hand until he found the opening. Then he would notify the authorities.

  Before he could take another step, his ears caught the sound of leather scraping stone. He slipped his knife from its sheath and waited. There was only silence.

  A torch flared, blinding him with its sudden brightness. Jared squinted against the light, thrusting his knife in the direction of a gray cloaked figure. A hand shot out from beside him, knocking the weapon from his grasp.

  He growled in fury and swung around to the left, feeling some satisfaction as his fist connected with a solid jaw. Before he could relish the howl of outrage from his attacker, the back of his head exploded in pain. He crumpled to his knees, saw an iron pot spattered with he could only assume was his blood. He mustered all his strength, willing himself to stay conscious. The bitch! She’d sent him into a trap!

  He began to wobble then felt a hard foot kick him onto his stomach. The edges of his vision blurred, narrowing until all his mind’s eye could see were a pair of lying emerald eyes. The blackness enveloped him and he fell into the void.

  Chapter Three

  Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

  The refrain played in his head like a drum until the sheer force of the emotion behind it dragged him back to consciousness. With effort, Jared pried his eyes open and stared into total darkness. No light, no shadows to bridge the cold, wet chasm. So this was death?

  A twinge of disappointment at the bleakness of the afterlife took him by surprise. Why should it bother him? Unlike his uncle, he’d never believed in the existence of paradise.

  His head felt weighted as though twenty bars of iron had replaced his skull. Slowly, he t
urned it to the right, not fully convinced it was going to stay attached. A groan rolled from his lips as an excruciating pain gripped his neck, spreading like fire into his shoulders. Gods, it felt like a bird of prey had dug its talons into his brain.

  Before his muddled thoughts could comprehend the reality that he was alive, the hard floor beneath him tilted sharply, rolling his stretched out form across an uneven surface. He stopped only when a chain attached to his wrists snapped out straight, jerking his shoulders into agony and his addled brain into terrifying clarity.

  Another pitch and roll and his battered body slammed back against a wall. Splintered wood gouged into his bare shoulders. Jared grabbed the tether in his hands and using the momentum of the swaying room, hoisted himself to a sitting position. Disoriented, he pushed back the waves of dizziness and braced his legs against the floor. This time when the room shifted, he stayed in place.

  His vision blurred, but he didn’t need to see to know he was on a ship. A ship in the midst of a tremendous storm. The vessel groaned in protest, every timber creaking and shuddering so violently with each new cresting of a wave he was certain it was disintegrating.

  His nostrils flared. The sharp scent of pitch permeated the airless hold. Necessary to waterproof the hull of a ship, a good seafarer would use generous amounts of the thick substance inside and out. Another wave hit the ship, saltwater seeping along the seam at his back. Gods.

  He shifted but there was no comfort to be found. Coupled with the smell of moldy grain, the erratic motion of the ship, and his head wound, it was all he could do not to vomit. He forced himself to breath slow and deep until the nausea faded but to no avail. Gripping the chain, he leaned over and emptied his stomach.

  How in the name of Hades had he ended up chained and on a ship? Vaguely, he remembered going to the warehouses across the harbor. It had been a short journey, from where Jared couldn’t quite grasp. But he had been searching for something. Searching for what? He squeezed his eyes tight, pushed back the pain the action brought, tried to recall.

  The thefts! He had been searching for his stolen merchandise. Something had led him to the abandoned buildings. Damn, why couldn’t he remember?

  The throbbing in his head increased with the effort to bring to mind the exact events. Someone. . . someone had instructed him to go there, but that came more from a feeling, an impression, rather than an actual memory.

  Jared tilted his head back against the wall. That was all he could glean from his fogged brain save the sensation of a very heavy, very hard object crashing across the back of his skull. Leaning back against the wall, he gripped his stomach as the ship rolled again. God, his head hurt, much worse than when he argued with his uncle. He raised his hands and probed until he found a thick clot of blood behind his ear. It was dry and flaky to the touch, indicating more than a little time had passed since his attack. He could almost hear Damon pointing out that his hard head had finally proven useful.

  A rush of air escaped his lungs as the ship swayed again. Who was the bastard sailing this vessel? Only a fool would sail into this type of weather. A fool or someone too desperate to care.

  Jared held the chain tight, waited until the hold leveled out before feeling his way along the links to the wall. There he found the end attached securely to one of the hull’s ribs with not one, but two bolts. Whoever had dragged him down here meant for him to stay. Uttering a loud curse, he jerked at the chain, heard the heavy thud of iron knocking against damp wood. The one spot in the whole sodden mess that was solid.

  He rubbed his hands across his face. None of this made any sense. Kidnapping was not unheard of, even in Alexandria, and most victims were redeemed after the payment of ransom. But they were not usually taken away from the source of that ransom, and what monies he had left remained in Alexandria. He ruled out simple vagrants accosting him. They would have robbed him, killed him, or at the very least left him for dead.

  Robbery. Jared shifted his hands and touched his bare arm. His robe was gone, as were his belt, knife, pouch and boots. There was a large rent in the neck of his tunic. He felt a moment’s anxiety until he found his mother’s amulet, still hanging from his neck.

  The ship began to settle into a stabilized, rhythmic swaying. The fierce howling of the wind was abating and he could hear the crew on the deck, shouting their relief and thanking various deities for deliverance from a watery grave.

  “Ho, you on deck,” he shouted, his voice hoarse, “I demand to speak to the captain.” There was a pause in the noise above him followed by the sound of the sailors going on about their duties. He repeated his demand, first in Greek, then Aramaic, Latin and Persian. He even tried the few words he knew of the Gaul's tongue, but there was no response. All he had managed to do with his shouting was to make his already parched throat raw.

  Long moments passed before a loud, scraping of wood against wood echoed through the silence of the hold, bringing him fully alert. A hatch door opened in the low ceiling at the far end of the hold.

  Cool, salt air rushed in, filling his lungs with its pure, sweet freshness. Unfortunately, no appreciative change in illumination came with the door opening. Gripping the chain, he readied himself.

  A faint yellow sphere of light bobbed its way around the opening. Jared narrowed his eyes, just able to discern the shape of a man climbing backwards down a makeshift ladder. The man jumped the last two steps and raised the oil lamp he carried. Jared’s head throbbed painfully at the sudden brightness. He raised his hands in an attempt to shield his eyes, croaking out, “I demand to speak to the captain of this ship.”

  The man regarded him with amusement, rubbing one filthy hand on the bottom of an already stained leather tunic. Jared measured his chances against his captor. Shorter by a head, but still sporting the hard muscles of a seaman, the man would have little advantage save one—he wasn’t chained to a wall. “I demand. . .”

  “I heard you the first time,” replied the man in crude Latin, setting the lantern on the floor. “What makes you think the captain would deign to speak to a slave?”

  Slave? A frisson of unease snaked up Jared’s back. He leveled the seaman with his most imperious glare. It was a look that never failed to glean the best price from his suppliers and sent trepidation through vendors bent on dishonesty. “Do you know who I am?”

  His captor said nothing, only watched him, a smirk playing on his lips.

  “I am Jared ben Gideon of Alexandria and I demand to be released.”

  He snorted. “Aye and I’m the Emperor Claudius.”

  Jared’s fury soared, but he reined it in, kept his tone reasonable. “If it is ransom you seek, it can be arranged.”

  A speculative light gleamed in the self-proclaimed Emperor’s eyes for a moment, but then quickly died out. “That’s a fanciful tale you tell, but it will little serve you.”

  “I speak the truth,” he bit the words distinctly, as if doing so would make the addled minded ass understand what a grievous mistake he was making.

  The man only chuckled and swung a water skin off his shoulder. He tossed it at Jared. “We were told to sell a malcontent Hebrew slave. We were not warned of his pre-disposition for lying.” He scratched a patch of grizzled hair on his chin. “That will bring down your market price considerably.” He tapped his lips with his finger. “Silence can be easily achieved with a gag, or perhaps by removing your tongue.”

  He seemed to consider that, raising Jared’s concern several notches.

  “As long as it’s not written on the placard around your neck, we may still get a decent price.” He shrugged. “No matter, we made a handsome profit with the silver paid to transport you to Brundisium.”

  Jared forgot all about the water skin as the seaman’s words sank in—his abduction had not been the by-product of brigands. This worthless piece of scum had been paid to sell him into slavery?

  This was madness. He was a merchant prince. Marketplaces throughout the Empire knew his name. He had worked hard to earn
that reputation and the respect that came with it.

  Jared curled his hands into fists. Somebody, some nameless enemy, wanted him gone. Permanently. Worse, the culprit wanted him degraded to the lowest existence on earth. The famed Alexandrian businessman replaced by a common Hebrew slave.

  Someone who knew of his heritage.

  The seaman belched loudly, scratched beneath his arm, and then started back up the ladder. Seconds later, the hatch door shut with an echoing thud, enclosing Jared once more in oblivion.

  Groping in the straw, he managed to find the water skin. The leather was moist beneath his fingers; a seam had split and was leaking its precious contents at an alarming rate. He dislodged the cap with his teeth and tilted it up to his cracked lips, savoring the cool moisture as it slipped down his burning throat. Too soon, it was gone.

  Jared wiped his mouth and stared into the darkness. His ships made regular circuits between Alexandria and Italia. Barring any more storms, it should take no more than seven days to reach Brundisiam. He had that much time to convince them to release him, find a way to escape or die trying.

  ***

  Bit by bit, Jared was drawn out of his lethargy by disjointed voices, by turns laughing and arguing. He rolled stiffly onto his side, no longer hearing the clanking of the chain and barely noticing the raw, abraded skin of his wrists.

  Locked in this fetid hole, he had lost all track of time. Days, weeks, a month, he could not have said how long since he had been taken. Already it seemed an eternity.

  There had been more storms. Navigating across the sea during Mare Clausum, the closed sea, was dangerous. Whoever had wanted him gone from Alexandria had little care for the potential loss of a ship and its crew—or its cargo.

  Deprived of fresh air and light he had slipped into a fevered stupor, that torturous place between waking nightmare and blessed oblivion. When he did manage to sleep, his dreams were plagued by images of a beautiful temptress with firelight hair and jade eyes, beckoning him to his doom.