The Grail King (27 page)

“Include the scabbard as well, and I’ll accept the deal.”

Marcus hesitated only briefly before unbuckling his scabbard and placing it on the podium. Another work of art, the leather was tooled with a Celtic design, inlaid with silver. Owein could tell it pained the blacksmith to part with it.

A scroll was produced, which Marcus signed. He pressed his ring into the wax Calidius’s man dripped at the bottom of the document. The transaction complete, Calidius rolled the papyrus and handed it to Marcus.

“Cut his ropes,” Marcus said.

Calidius gave a swift shake of his head. “Not here in the arena. This one’s dangerous.”

“I’ve no doubt of that. All the same, I want him unbound. And since I’ve given up my dagger to you …”

“You’ll get no refund if he runs,” Calidius cautioned.

“I expect none.”

“As you say. But I’ll not endanger my customers.” He nodded to Owein’s handler. “Accompany Marcus Aquila and his slave to the forum market. Once there, you may cut the bonds.”

“Yes, sir.” The man gave a sharp tug on Owein’s tether. Owein hadn’t anticipated the move; his attention had been fixed on Aquila and Calidius. He stumbled off the auction block. He would have fallen if Marcus hadn’t sprung forward to catch his arm. Their gazes met, briefly.

“Take your hands from me,” he choked out, a tide of rage and helplessness rising hotly. Was Clara watching this humiliation? How would she bear to look at him, after seeing him paraded naked and sold like a beast?

Marcus stepped away. “Cut the ropes on this man’s legs,” he said. The guard looked at Calidius, who shrugged.

The relief Owein felt at having his legs unrestrained was overwhelming. And yet he hated that Marcus Aquila had been the one to grant that freedom.

“I’ll take his tether as well,” Marcus said.

The guard placed the end of the rope in Marcus’s hand. Marcus’s fist closed around it. Owein drew a sharp breath. Marcus looked up. His eyes met Owein’s, assessing him.

Deliberately, Marcus let the rope drop. “Do not think to do anything that will upset Rhiannon,” he warned in a low voice.

Owein jerked his head in a nod.

“Come.”

Owein followed him from the arena, acutely aware of his nudity and the murmurings of the crowd. They passed into the forum market, where Calidius’s man cut Owein’s ropes. A small crowd gathered, gawking. Marcus tossed a coin to one of the venders and received a pair of
braccas,
worn but still serviceable. Owein jerked them on.

The spectacle hadn’t ended. The crowd had an expectant air, and Marcus seemed to welcome the attention. Turning to the crowd, he pronounced the formal words of manumission.

“Before the people of Isca, I, Marcus Ulpius Aquila, citizen, declare this slave a free man. His name shall be entered in the city census. From this day forward, Owein of the Brigantes is a citizen of Rome.”

A citizen of Rome?
Owein stiffened. He couldn’t imagine a worse insult.

His scowl must have revealed the sentiment, for Marcus sent him a quelling glance. He turned, facing Owein, but his words were spoken loudly, for the benefit of the crowd.

“
Liber esto, amicus.
”

Be free, friend.

Pivoting sharply, Marcus strode away. Owein stared at his retreating form. After a moment’s hesitation, he stalked after him. He caught up with Marcus in an area crowded with horses and carts. Marcus approached a pair of horses, patting them on the nose and speaking softly. He turned, propped his hip against the side of the cart, and folded his arms across his broad chest.

They stood for a moment, gazes locked in challenge. This was the man Clara would marry. The man who would share her bed and her life.

Owein had never hated anyone more.

“Where are the women?” he asked finally.

“It takes some time to make it down from the upper seating,” Marcus replied in Celtic. “I expect they’ll be here soon enough.”

Owein stared. Until now, Marcus had spoken only in Latin, and Owein had assumed he didn’t speak the Celt tongue. Few Romans did. But Marcus’s last words had flowed in flawless Celtic. What was more, his accent was an echo of Owein’s own northern lilt.

“Try,” Marcus added crossly, “to exhibit at least a veneer of civility when they arrive.”

“Dinna provoke me, man.”

Marcus straightened. “Don’t forget who spoke the public words of manumission.”

Owein flexed his fingers, fighting his rage. He knew very well he was indebted to Marcus Aquila for his life and freedom. Perversely, he wanted nothing more than to smash his fist into the Roman’s face.

Marcus’s gaze snapped to a point behind Owein. “They are here,” he murmured.

“Owein!”

Rhiannon.
Owein turned, his heart constricting so tightly he feared it would stop beating. His sister was before him, running down the row of carts, all pretense of reserve abandoned. Clara and a young red-haired girl who could only be his sister’s daughter were close behind her.

Owein couldn’t make his feet move toward them. He stood, rooted to the ground, watching them come. Rhiannon reached him first. She made to throw her arms around him, but he caught her wrists and held her back.

“I’m covered in filth, little mama.”

She tipped her head back and gazed up at him. She looked much as she did in his memories, save for a few lines about her eyes and mouth, and a strand or two of silver in her hair. Her amber eyes filled with tears. “Do ye think I care about a little dirt?”

“I care.” He looked over her head. Clara had halted a few steps behind. Her expression was a question he didn’t want to answer.

Rhiannon lifted a hand and riffled her fingers through his filthy hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. Her touch was soft yet it went through his body like a blade. How many times had she soothed him this way, when he’d been a lad and she’d been the only mother he knew? He shut his eyes, tears burning behind his eyelids.

“Ye shouldn’t have come to the arena,” he said roughly.

“How could I stay away?”

“I’m nay worth the price Lucius Aquila’s son paid.”

“You’re worth far more.” She did fling her arms around him then, clutching him to her tightly. “Oh, Owein. I never thought to see ye again.”

Owein gripped her shoulders. “Ye’ll soil your dress.”

But she wouldn’t let him push her away. She clung to him all the tighter, her face pressed against his chest, her body shaking with sobs. Owein stood awkwardly, not wanting to embrace her for fear of dirtying her even more. But as her weeping continued, he found he could do nothing but enclose her in his arms. Looking over her head, he saw that Clara and Rhiannon’s daughter were crying as well.

Marcus Aquila, however, was not.

“We’re drawing an audience,” he said curtly. “Let’s remove this touching drama to the farm.”

Owein let his hands fall to his sides.

“
Placet.
”

As you say.

He was being an ass.

Marcus surveyed the scene before him with increasing self-disgust. Owein, freshly bathed and dressed in Lucius’s spare
braccas
and shirt, occupied the chair by the hearth. The
braccas
were too short; they only just covered Owein’s knees. Rhiannon fussed, bringing her brother a mug of
cervesia,
then remaining by his side while he drank.

Marcus found his stepmother’s attentions profoundly irritating. The reaction shamed him. Was he so petty a man to begrudge Rhiannon’s love for her brother? Or Breena’s starry-eyed worship of the uncle she’d just met?

Perhaps the blame for Marcus’s foul mood more properly rested upon the obvious fact that the woman he loved was enraptured with a Druid. Clara had hardly glanced away from Owein since he’d entered the room. Her gaze drank in the Celt’s every movement—despite the fact that Owein hadn’t addressed a single word to her, nor even, so far as Marcus could tell, glanced in her direction.

Owein was clearly uncomfortable in his sister’s home. He’d refused to enter the indoor bathing rooms, insisting instead on washing outdoors in the frigid kitchen garden with a few rags and buckets of heated water. Even now, ensconced by the hearth, he sat stiffly. Marcus doubted Owein’s rigid posture had anything to do with the salve Rhiannon was applying to the cuts on his back. No, Marcus suspected the wounds that pained Owein were far older.

Rhiannon’s finger traced a puckered gouge on Owein’s shoulder that could only have been made by a slaver’s flagellum.

“When were ye taken?” she asked softly.

For a moment, Marcus thought Owein wouldn’t answer. When he did, his tone was without inflection. “Seven winters past, in the north of Cambria. I … I dinna remember much of the battle.”

Rhiannon’s fingers stilled. “How long were ye … ?”

“Almost two years.”

Rhiannon dipped her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. “If I had known …”

Owein covered her hand with his. “Dinna cry, little mama.” He nodded across the table to Aiden. “The Great Mother sent this man to my aid.”

The old Celt beamed. “Aye, my clan was blessed that day. Our people were glad to have a Wise One among us.”

“It did ye little good in the end,” Owein muttered.

An awkward silence ensued.

Owein lifted his gaze to Marcus. “I will repay my slave price, Roman.”

It was an empty promise, and both men knew it. Owein could labor for years without earning the sum of fifty gold
aurei,
let alone the true value of Clara’s jewelry and Marcus’s dagger. To Marcus’s credit, he just nodded. He found he hadn’t the stomach to rip away Owein’s last shred of dignity.

And yet, he wanted to. The lout could at least address him by name, rather than with the dubious title “Roman,” pronounced with as much respect as the word “pig.” An urge to sink a blade into the far wall struck hard. Marcus’s hand was halfway to the hilt of his favorite dagger before he remembered he’d bartered it for Owein’s freedom. He flexed his fingers, cursing under his breath.

Breena approached Owein, her head inclined shyly. She carried a bowl heaped with stew and chunks of bread. “Will ye eat, Uncle?”

“Aye, lass.” Owein took the food, his mouth curving briefly.

Marcus’s sister responded with her most dazzling smile. Owein’s gaze lingered on the girl, his eyes narrowing when he saw Rhys’s Druid pendant around her neck. Owein’s gaze lifted to Breena’s face. Marcus’s frown deepened as the Druid’s eyes lost their focus.

After a long moment, Owein gave a swift shake of his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Rhiannon’s gaze was troubled. “Are ye in pain, Owein? Is it—”

Owein’s eyes were sober. “Your daughter has the Sight. What does your Roman husband think of that?”

Rhiannon bit her lip. “He doesn’t know.”

“Rhys wants to take me to the sacred isle,” Breena put in. “To be trained in the ways of the Light.”

Owein’s brows lifted. “Rhys? The Druid Cormac told me of?”

Rhiannon nodded. “Rhys’s grandfather, Cyric, wants Breena to foster on Avalon. He fears if she’s not trained in the Light, her link to the Deep Magic could be turned to the Dark.”

Owein’s eyes were grave. “As Madog turned mine, all those years ago.”

Rhiannon looked away. “Aye.”

“And will your Roman husband give up his daughter to a band of Druids?”

“No,” Marcus cut in. “He will not. And neither will I.”

“Marcus, please. Let us nay speak of this now.”

“You cannot avoid it forever, Mother.”

Breena hastened to Marcus’s side and put a hand on his arm. “Marcus, Owein is here now. Perhaps … perhaps he can teach me.”

Rhiannon turned hopeful eyes to her brother. “Ye are welcome here. Will ye stay, Owein?”

Owein looked into his bowl of stew. “I’m nay one to teach any of the Light. Also, I canna imagine Lucius Aquila would tolerate me in his house. I nearly killed him.”

“I will handle Lucius,” Rhiannon said quietly.

Privately, Marcus entertained doubts about that.

“Ye are my brother,” Rhiannon continued. “Ye’ll always have a home with me.”

“I canna accept your offer,” Owein said quietly. “I mean to be gone in the morning.”

“Gone?” Clara, who until now had remained silent, half-rose from her seat. “Gone where?”

Owein met Clara’s gaze fully for the first time since Marcus had taken him out of the arena. “Where I go is no concern of yours.” His tone was almost brutal.

Clara paled.

Marcus could tolerate this travesty no longer. Abruptly, he strode across the room and held out his hand to Clara. He pitched his voice low, speaking in Latin. “Please. Walk with me. Outside, in the garden.”

Clara looked toward Owein, who was staring so intently at his stew he might have been inspecting it for swimming insects. “All right,” she said tightly.

She put her hand in his and his fingers closed around it.

Clara had left the house with her blacksmith.

The words that would have called her back had been on the tip of Owein’s tongue. They’d gone unsaid. He could hardly bear to look at her, knowing what she’d witnessed in the arena. His shame was hard enough to bear before Rhiannon and her Roman son. Before Clara, his humiliation was complete. How she must pity him.

No man should be pitied by the woman he loved.

For he did love her. The realization struck him with all the swiftness and fury of the slaver’s whip. He loved her delicacy, her strength, her courage in the face of things far beyond her sheltered experience. But he could offer her no life, no future.

He could never dwell here, in her world. This Roman city burned a hole in his spirit. The arena and slave market, the press of bodies, the jumble of buildings piled atop one another—all these things were bad enough. But perhaps the worst was the high, somber walls of the fortress, declaring the might and supremacy of Rome. And the soldiers. They strode through the streets at every turn. He’d had a difficult time restraining his rage at the sight.

Valgus was one of those soldiers.

Owein had failed to kill the man. No doubt the snake had slithered back to his fortress, where Owein could never gain access. With Gracchus dead, Clara was in Valgus’s power.