The Patrician
The Patrician
By Joan Kayse
For my parents who gave me the gifts of creativity, patience, passion and Irish stubborness to pursue my dreams. I love you Mom and Daddy!
There have been so many people who have supported me as writers and friends. To Renee Halverson, my first mentor. She was the first to read my work. Her knowledge and wisdom made me a better writer and gave me a strong foundation to build a career. T. L. Gray. Wow. How lucky was I to have met you at RWA Denver? No, really. How lucky? You've not only taught me about good storytelling but been an awesome example of what a professional writer should be. You've supported me not only as a critique partner but as a friend and as a sister of my heart. When you say it's good I believe it. Love you. (Your aversion to cats can be overlooked). To Lisa Tapp aka "Plot Goddess". The day you were rescued was the day I gained a friend who encourages me in all my efforts, has talked me down off the ledge many times and who knows the value of a good doughnut. Karen Ender. Enthusiasm is your middle name. Thanks for being such a great cheerleader. At the risk of making this the longest acknowledgement in publishing history, a thousand thank you's to a group of ladies known as the Romance Bandits. Sister friends, you rock and have taught me so much my head spins. A special shout out to Suz Ferrell and Susan Sey whose encouragement and guidance with this publishing venture kept me sane. Em--dash, Em--dash love you! To Louisville Romance Writers. Gals, your talent and professionalism make this chapter rock! Thanks for your support. And of course, to all the family and friends who are finally getting the answer to the question "When is your book is coming out?
“Search every fucking house!”
Jared burrowed deeper into his pallet. By the gods, who was screeching at this time of night?
“Find them!”
With a groan, he flung the woolen cover off and sat up. He’d made his bed on his grandfather’s roof in the hopes of finding some peace and quiet—not an easy task with scores of younger cousins vying for his attention on this rare visit to his extended family.
Jared’s yawn ended in a smile. He didn’t mind really. He enjoyed the companionship no matter how fleeting, but being an only child he was used to solitude.
The noise grew louder, adult voices shouting and cursing. He scratched his head. His older cousins must have indulged in too much wine again. A handful of unruly bullies, they were a constant source of aggravation to the younger relations. Jared’s mouth stretched into a grin. He might be used to solitude, but as a thirteen year old boy, it would be worth every minute of lost sleep just to watch his grandfather’s scolding.
“Mercy, I beg, mercy!”
Jared frowned at the female voice laced with fear. Trying to ignore the knot forming in his stomach and failing miserably, he jumped to his feet and ran to the edge of the rooftop. His mouth went dust dry.
Roman soldiers swarmed the village center below. Orange light from their torches cast distorted shadows across their segmented armor. A cold chill shot through him as they marched house to house, breaking down doors and dragging bewildered residents from their beds. The sound of furniture splintering and pottery smashing against mud brick walls filled the darkness. Deaf to the pleas of the villagers on their knees, the soldiers continued to set fire to each dwelling.
Gods, his grandfather’s house was next!
This could not be happening. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. Any moment now he’d waken to his grandmother cajoling him from sleep with promises of fresh honey cakes. A loud crash from below stairs extinguished that hope. The deep rumble of his grandfather’s voice trying to reason with the intruders was lost beneath the loud crack of the door being hammered down by the soldiers.
Frantic, Jared tossed aside baskets filled with dates and nuts, searching for a weapon. A large jar of olive oil toppled over anointing his bare feet. He spewed out a foul word. His mother would have admonished him for such vulgarity.
His mother. Jared’s chest clenched, his heart stopped. His mother was below stairs.
Gods.
From the corner of his eye, Jared caught sight of an object jutting out from a pile of raw wool waiting to be spun. His grandmother’s spindle.
He cursed again when his feet slipped in the oil as he scurried to pull the rod free from the greasy fleece. He tested the weight in his hand. It wasn’t very long, but was made of solid bone, heavy enough to do some damage. He started for the stairway.
His mother met him at the door wearing her favorite burgundy
tunica
, her midnight hair unveiled and rumpled. Her mouth was set in a grim line, and her dark eyes, usually bright with laughter, were clouded with worry. “Hurry, Jared, there is no time.”
“Mother,” he replied in a calm voice, though his stomach felt like a writhing eel. “I’ll tell them who I am, who my father is.” Jared’s throat tightened at the anguish that filled her brown eyes.
She reached out a hand, and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “No love, they are soldiers of Rome bent on a mission. They would not care if your father were the Emperor himself.”
“Shifra,” called his grandmother from the lower level. Jared shivered at the quivering fear he heard in her voice.
Shifra took a steadying breath. “Now, you must listen to me, I have a very important task for you. Your cousins are waiting behind the house. I need you to take them to the caves. You’ll be safe there. Do not come out until I send for you.”
“You must come, too,” he insisted, catching her hand and tugging her toward the edge of the roof. He refused to release his hold even as he straddled the edge where a palm tree grew, curved against the side of the house. “This way,” he urged.
But Shifra slipped free and cupped his face in her hands. “Son, look at me.”
Jared didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see the truth in her eyes. A gentle shake brought his gaze to hers and the pain in his chest took his breath away.
“I must stay and help your grandparents.” Her voice caught. She kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him close. Jared closed his eyes and buried his face against her breast. Her jasmine scent filled his senses. He couldn’t stop trembling.
Shifra hushed him. “Do you know how much I love you?”
She had asked him that question every day of his life—the answer was inscribed on his heart. “More than the stars in the heavens,” he whispered his voice thick with tears he couldn’t stop from coursing down his cheeks.
Shifra gave him a tremulous smile. She took the pendant she always wore from around her neck and slipped it over his head. He stared at her, fingered the silver medallion. Given to her by his grandfather on the day she had married his father, it was inscribed with Hebrew letters spelling faith. His apprehension exploded into full blown terror.
A loud crash followed by the terrified screams of his grandmother caused them both to jump. Before he could protest his mother swept his other leg over the ledge. He made a wild grab for the trunk of the tree.
“Go, Jared! God will protect you.” Finding a handhold, he glanced back over his shoulder just in time to catch a blur of burgundy gown and black hair disappearing down the stairs.
The husk of the trunk scraped his thighs as he shimmied to the ground. Six of his cousins huddled around the base of the tree, their expressions a reflection of his own shock. Behind them, a neighbor’s roof timbers gave way to flames sending a shower of sparks into the air. Jared swallowed hard against a fresh rush of tears. It was just the smoke.
His mother would be fine. Shifra would reason with the soldiers, stop the madness. She would be waiting for him when he returned. Until then, she’d given him a task. Snatching the smallest child, a girl of two, into his arms, Jared silently motioned the others to follow.
Moonlight filtered through scattered clouds, lighting the path to where brown earth rolled up into sharp edged ridges and steeper cliffs. Without a word, he led the children to the base of the highest peak. Behind a patch of dry scrub brush he found the entrance to the caves that days before he had explored with these same cousins looking for King Solomon’s treasure. He settled them into the biggest one, admonishing them to be quiet.
“Will your father stop them, Jared?” whispered his cousin Abraham.
Jared tensed. “My father’s not here.” He should be here. He should have come with them to celebrate his only son’s coming of age. He closed his eyes at the memory of the bitter argument he’d overheard his parents having over Shifra’s desire to see Jared accepted into her faith. Flavian tolerated his wife’s religion to a point but his only son, he proclaimed, would not dishonor the family deities.
“But he
is
a Roman. He can make them stop!” insisted Elizabeth. Younger than Jared by a year, she was convinced of her superior maturity. She crossed her arms and pinned him with a hard stare. “
You
are Roman. Make them stop, Jared.”
A chill swept through him at the accusation in her voice. He glanced around the circle of expectant faces. Treated as a dark family secret, Jared’s Roman heritage was never discussed, never spoken of out of love for Shifra. But the underlying friction was always there. Why must he always be a Roman
or
a Jew? Why couldn’t he just be Jared?
He squared his shoulders. “I will go back. I’m certain by now that grandfather has made them see reason.”
They nodded as a group, the strength and wisdom of their common elder relieving some of their worry. He returned Elizabeth’s scrutiny. “Do not leave the caves.”
In a matter of minutes, he’d made his way back to the small village, approaching from behind his grandfather’s house, now a charred shell. Pockets of flames snapped and crackled as they devoured what little remained. Thick smoke wrapped around the decimated community like a shroud, causing Jared’s eyes to water and his lungs to fill with ash. Suppressing the cough that clawed at his throat, he crept up to an outside wall and peered around the corner.
Soldiers milled around the central area of the settlement. A few surveyed the carnage from horseback. One he recognized as a centurion by the crested plume of his helmet. His father had taken him many times to watch the Empire’s proud army parade through the streets of Rome, cheering their latest conquests. This, his father had told him, was the pride and honor of Rome. This was his heritage. Jared swallowed the bile rising in his throat.
A grizzled sergeant directed the collection of treasure, scarce as it was, into a central pile. A group burst into laughter, shouting encouragement as one of their number cornered a goat against the well. The hapless creature tumbled to the ground, his bleat of protest silenced by the single swipe of a sword. The soldier wiped the blood from his blade on the cloak of a body with a thick, gray beard.
Hot tears scalded his eyes and he began to shake. His grandfather.
“Ho, Titus! Was she as sweet as the other flowers of Judah?”
He followed the speaker’s gaze to a stand of palm trees, where a soldier was rising from his knees, adjusting the bottom of his tunic.
“Too much fight for my liking,” the rutting man called back. Two girls cowered at his feet. One was sobbing and rocking, trying in vain to hold together the tattered remnants of her dress against her bared breasts. The other—a pretty girl with olive skin, thick sable braids and incredible hazel eyes who, only hours before, had smiled shyly at Jared during his celebration, stared vacantly into space. Another soldier kicked aside a leg from his path. It was draped in burgundy cloth.
His chest constricted, his vision blurred.
“No!” He sprinted across the square as if in a tunnel, neither hearing nor seeing anything except his mother. Sobbing, he fell beside her, his knees sinking into the sand.