The Patrician Page 8

  Bryna didn’t move a muscle. He was close, just steps away from escape. As he reached the wall across from her hiding place, Bryna slipped deeper into the stable’s darkness brushing against several lengths of chain hanging from a post. Startled, ready for an attack from any side, the man paused, swinging his gaze in her direction, locking his gaze with hers.

  His eyes narrowed for the briefest moment, anger sparkling within their golden depths. She saw no recognition, but his head tilted to one side as though he were about to ask a question. Deciding against it, he started over the wall, but his lapse had given the overseers the extra time they needed.

  Bryna gasped as two guards tackled him to the ground. The slave fought viciously, but fatigue soon overcame him, leaving him to the overseers’ mercy. She put her hand to her mouth, her stomach churning as she listened to the dull thud of fists pummeling muscle and bone.

  In triumph, as though they had just won a prized trophy, they dragged the semi-conscious man to a wooden post used for flogging. It was a fearsome form of punishment and one that every slave feared and that Baal thoroughly enjoyed. She had witnessed one other flogging since her arrival—it had been horrible.

  The slave’s arms were stretched high above his head and fastened with thick cords to the crossbars. It took some effort on the part of the overseers to bind him tautly enough so that his feet barely scraped the ground.

  Baal snapped his whip in the air. “Gather round, you worthless lot. Learn well the lesson of those who dare challenge their master.”

  Gods, she did not want to watch the punishment. Bryna eased herself into a doorway. No one paid attention to her anyway. She could sneak back to the kitchen, pretend he wasn’t here. Instead she was thrust into the throng of slaves who hurried to Baal’s summons. Caught in the middle of at least a dozen eager spectators, she was jostled and pushed until she stood directly in front of the pole, face to face with the defeated man.

  His eyes were closed, his head limp against his left arm. His breathing was labored and he licked his cracked lips before taking a ragged swallow. Already a dark purple bruise, the size of a hen’s egg was forming over his right eye. Blood trickled down his cheek, disappearing beneath the ragged neckline of his threadbare tunic.

  This is your fault. Bryna hugged herself against the accusing voice in her head and averted her eyes, but her gaze strayed back to the man. The weight of disappointment at his failed escape was almost too heavy to bear. Volatile energy infused him and her awakened senses could hardly bear it. She trembled with its intensity, wondered if the others felt it too. But all she saw were faces filled with morbid expectation.

  Baal, satisfied that he had the attention of the entire household, unfurled the scourge. Made of braided leather with bits of stone weaved into the tips, it was meant to shred the skin rather than simply slice it.

  A deep sense of dread welled up inside of her. The vilicus drew back his arm. The whip whistled as it flew through the air. It was a shrill sound like no other Bryna had ever heard. She jumped as it slapped against his back.

  The man's eyes flew open, locked onto her. Rage flowed from him, engulfing her with such force that she swayed against the solid wall of people behind her, who shoved her forward in disgust.

  The lash hit again, peeling away bits of skin and slicing deep cuts into the man’s quivering shoulders. Something wet landed on her arm. She glanced at the sky. The hot sun was still burning bright, unmarred by rain clouds. Another drop fell on her cheek. She looked down at her dress, at the blood splattered there. His blood. Bile rose in her throat.

  He did not cry out, did not beg for mercy as the lash fell again and again. His only reaction was a trembling of his fisted hands. Bryna was amazed. The other slave who had been punished had fainted after three strokes. His silence seemed only to infuriate Baal, who swung the whip harder. Two. . . five. . . seven.

  It was only a matter of minutes, but it seemed an eternity for ten lashes to end. The slave's gaze never left hers during the whole ordeal. Bryna willed him strength, a meager offering compared to all the suffering she had caused. Not until the last blow fell did he give into the pain. With a deep throated groan, his head fell back and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  The silence in the courtyard was deafening. The severity of the beating stunning even those eager for a good show. Baal was panting from the effort. He swiped at the fine sheen of perspiration that covered his brow, coiling the blood soaked whip into his hand. “This same fate awaits anyone who thinks to escape. Are there any who question me?” He scanned the crowd, then nodded, satisfied that a proper level of fear was held by all. “Back to your work.”

  Bryna lingered as everyone else slowly drifted to their duties. Baal and the rest of the overseers returned to see to the shackling of the remaining slaves, leaving the unconscious man hanging in the blistering heat. She should walk away—wanted to walk away, needed to walk away.

  Bryna clamped her jaw tight. She was not going to take the blame. She had done what she had to do. And yet, watching his suffering made her blood run cold.

  Hand shaking, she swiped the flecks of blood from her arm. He would soon be toiling in the fields and she would be gone. They would not meet again. She brushed away her concern at the unsettling dread that coiled in her stomach and returned to her duties.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Eda worked them mercilessly and for once Bryna did not mind. She wanted desperately to keep her mind off the man hanging beneath the broiling sun. But her gaze wandered to his still form on more than one occasion.

  “You, there. Girl,” Baal called to her as she walked toward the kitchen straining beneath the weight of an overflowing basket of vegetables.

  He stepped into her path, scanning her from top to bottom, his expression sliding into a leering mask when he noticed the loose neckline of her shift. Bryna set the basket down, jerked the material closed, and bowed her head.

  Baal reached out and stroked her arm, his fingers brushing the swell of her breast. “Follow me.”

  Chapter Five

  The vilicus strode across the span of the yard without waiting to see if she followed. Why would he? She was a slave and he the overseer; whose symbol of authority hung not ten feet away, bleeding into the dirt.

  She averted her gaze as they passed the flogging post and the limp form tied to it. It wouldn’t do for Baal to take notice of her interest in the slave. Her plans for escaping were nearly complete and anonymity was essential to her success. For that reason alone she dare not risk showing any concern for the man.

  It had nothing at all to do with the guilt that sliced through her knowing she had brought him to this. Crossing her arms over her stomach did little to ease the nausea that churned her gut. Intent on ignoring him she did not see Baal stop and ran straight into his back.

  He scowled over his shoulder. “Get in there.” He nodded toward a squat mud brick building. Gods, was he intent on completing his assault? Bryna swallowed past the dread in her throat and crossed the threshold into the musty interior.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light emitting from the doorway. The air smelled of dust and disuse and seemed to squeeze in around her, reaching in to take the last breath of air from her lungs. It reminded her with terrifying clarity of her cell at the taverna.

  She whirled around, prepared to risk Baal’s wrath, the lash, anything to get away from the suffocating room. But his stocky frame filled the doorway, blocking her escape.

  Dread skittered up her spine when he stepped inside, removing the leather girdle around his waist as he closed the distance between them. There was no doubting his intent. She balled her hands into fists and braced her feet apart, prepared to fight. He was not going to take anything more from her.

  His husky chuckle dragged across her raw nerves. “So that’s the way of it? Perhaps that is where I made my mistake before. I like my whores to fight.” He grabbed himself. “Makes my cock like marble.”

  �
�Baal!” Eda called hoarsely from the courtyard. Bryna blew out a breath, for once grateful for the old hag’s shriek. A look of sheer terror tore across the vilicus’ face. He barely got his tunic straightened before Eda stuck her head into the room.

  “Baal, my love. What are you doing?” She paused. “I have been waiting eagerly for my husband to greet me after such a long journey.” Eda’s gaze found and narrowed on her. “And why is this heathen here instead of at the duties I set for her?”

  “Eda, my love,” crooned Baal. “I was merely seeing our master’s business settled before seeking out my beautiful wife.” He pulled Eda’s skinny form into his arms and nibbled at her neck.

  Bryna’s nausea tripled.

  The hag giggled like a young girl, swatted playfully at her husband’s arm. She reached up, giving Baal a loud, wet kiss. But his diversion was unsuccessful. “Why is she here, my sweet?” Eda was all innocence but Bryna noted the sharp suspicion woven into her words.

  Baal did not skip a beat. “There is a task that must be done and I hesitate to take the skilled workers from your side, what with the master and his guests to look out for, so I chose the barbarian.”

  Eda’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What task?”

  If she hadn’t been so filled with tension herself and in danger of being blamed for her own rape, Bryna would have laughed out loud at the panicked look on Baal’s face. Evidently, the household slaves were not the only ones who feared Eda’s wrath.

  A broad smile creased his face. “Wait here my love.”

  Eda did just that, drumming her fingers on her crossed arms, staring holes through Bryna.

  She averted her gaze, concentrated on making herself invisible. Gods, why did she have to be the fortunate one caught in the middle of a husband and wife quarrel? Things couldn’t possibly get worse.

  “In here,” shouted Baal from outside.

  Eda just managed to move aside before two overseers squeezed through the door. Between them they dragged the slave from the flogging. They had him by the arms, his bare toes digging shallow furrows in the ground. Both wrists and ankles were encircled with the very iron cuffs and thick chains he had fought so hard to avoid. A deep throated groan mingled with the rattle of the fetters as the guards dropped him on the floor—right at her feet. Bryna gasped and scooted against the wall. A poisonous snake, fangs bared ready to strike could not have caused her heart to beat faster.

  “This is the task I need the girl for,” said Baal, joining a skeptical Eda in the doorway.

  “To tend a half dead slave?”

  A snarl formed on Baal’s lips but shifted quickly to a stiff smile when Eda peered at him. “Yes, dearest. I had to make an example of the dog and as you can see, he forced me to use the most stringent discipline.”

  Liar. Bryna had seen the frenzied enjoyment on his face as he had beaten the man senseless. The vilicus had enjoyed every bloody stroke.

  Eda shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t know about this.”

  Impatience tinged Baal’s reply. “The planting is behind schedule and the master will be furious if all of the slaves are not fit and able to work. I need the girl to tend his wounds.”

  Eda made a disgruntled noise then finally nodded. “All right, Baal, but no more than a day.” She shot Bryna a look that would freeze fire. “Do not dally, husband,” she said, raking a finger along his arm. “I have saved the choicest honey cakes just for you.”

  Eda swung away from the door, undulating her bony hips in invitation. Baal’s relief was audible, while Bryna felt none as he turned his attention back to her.

  “Tend his wounds,” he snapped irritably.

  “Tend him?” She blinked, unable to keep the accusation from her voice. “He has been gravely injured.” She glanced down at his battered form, swallowed past the tightness clogging her throat. Aye, injured by her lies.

  Baal stepped closer to her. “If he dies, I’ll cut his cost out of your worthless flesh.”

  The overseer’s eyes were hot with lust. Bryna kept her gaze on him, willing herself not to move, not to give him any excuse to attack. She pressed her lips together when he grabbed her chin, slid his hand down her throat, pausing to give it a meaningful squeeze, then slipped it beneath the loose neckline of her dress. She sucked in a sharp breath at the hard pinch to her nipple. Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the room.

  Bryna swallowed her gasp of outrage. Foul, filthy pig! The words rang in her head but she dare not speak them. She bunched the neck of her tunic against her chest and stared at the empty doorway for what seemed an eternity, her heart pounding so loud she was certain it could be heard in the courtyard.

  She’d been certain that Baal would have moved onto another victim, willing or not and forgotten about the barbarian whose station was lower than all others in his master’s household. Was it a matter of pride? Did he fear she would tell others of his failure as a man?

  Gods.

  What had she done to deserve such misfortune? The overseer’s attention took the plan of her escape and cast it awry like dice in a game. Any certainty she held of its success was gone. And then there was him.

  Bryna averted her gaze and edged around the prone figure on the floor. She paced back and forth, trying to rub warmth back into her ice cold arms. This could not be happening.

  Perhaps now was the time to flee. Baal would suspect nothing, convinced she obeyed his orders and cared for the man. She would wait until nightfall, gather her supplies and slip away. It would be hours before they discovered her missing. Yes, that was a good plan.

  A moan from the center of the room stopped her in mid-stride. She stared at the wall, refusing to look at him. If she didn’t see him, then the sense of responsibility that threatened to choke her could be tucked neatly away and ignored.

  Another moan, rippled with pain, filled the tiny room and prodded her conscience like a spear. It had never been in her nature to leave someone in need. That was your old life, a voice in her mind whispered. Everything is different now. You are different.

  A knot formed in her chest. In some ways, she could not argue that she was changed. After all she’d seen, all she’d experienced, aye she was not the same witless girl who’d never dreamed Rome existed, who acted on hurt feelings without thinking.

  The moaning stopped, the only sound his ragged breathing.

  Bryna walked over to the man, forced her gaze down. His back was a gaping mass of cuts and bruises. Many of the welts had begun to crust over, but some of the deeper wounds still oozed bright red blood, soaking the remnant of his tunic, now in tatters around his waist.

  Her legs shook and she slipped to her knees beside him, her guilt overpowering any compassion. This was her fault. If she’d only stood up to Coeus, refused to follow his orders, this man would not be here now, near death, in chains, a slave. She ran both hands through her hair. If only she’d warned her brother in time, neither of them would be here at all. An image of Bran by the river, this man looking down at her in her cell flashed like lightening through her mind.

  She kept her trembling hands tucked beneath her folded arms, refused to touch him. If her sight was returning, she didn’t want to risk the connection, didn’t want to know the depth of his hurt. She concentrated instead on what she could see. Beneath layers of grime, his arms and legs were too lean but still corded with muscles. Even the marks of the lash could not hide the strength beneath the wide expanse of his shoulders.

  His face was turned toward her, hidden by a knotted length of filthy black hair. Unable to resist, she lifted a tangled lock away with the tip of one finger. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Those piercing eyes were closed, the right one swollen completely shut now. His brows were puckered into a frown, thick with clotted blood that still seeped from a gash on his forehead. Bruises at various stages of healing were scattered beneath the shaggy beard that covered the line of his jaw, strong and chiseled despite his injuries.

  A rush of anger flooded Bryna. Ange
r at the Romans, at Baal, at slavery as a whole, but most of all at the man lying in the dirt before her. In her mind he had been dead. That would have been hard to live with, yes, but not nearly as difficult as seeing proof of the suffering her deception had brought him.

  Damn him.

  She sat back on her heels and considered him. She had some knowledge of healing, but that had been of little use in this strange Roman world. Her resources were limited, her choices merely nonexistent. She couldn’t help this man.

  He moaned again, fisted his hands in the loose dirt, every muscle in his body tensing as if he were still caught in the struggle with the overseers. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, the fatigue of the last few days—the last months—washing over her. She couldn’t just leave him here, unattended.

  Careful, lest she cause him pain, Bryna skimmed her hands over his body, checking for hidden injuries. Beneath her fingers, his muscles were like rock, streamlined by whatever hard labor he had endured. She recalled his claim of being a merchant, but she wondered at that for he had a warrior’s body. Her gaze lingered on his hands—large, strong hands that in the vision had stroked her skin possessively setting her blood on fire.

  She shook her head in disgust. That had been an illusion, a dream, not a vision. It hadn’t been real. It would never be real. She’d rather die than let him touch her in such a manner.

  Then why were her cheeks flushed, burning with heat?

  Jumping up, as much to distance herself from the energies emanating from him as to gather the items she’d need to tend him, she caught a glint from the corner of her eye. It was a round medallion, made of silver, stained with dried blood and looped around his neck with a frayed length of cord that had been knotted multiple times. A talisman, a symbol of some sort to ward off evil. She blew out a breath. Not a very effective one if his luck was any indication. She reached over and traced the etched design with her finger.