The Patrician (38 page)

That left the benefactor. A third party interested in not only ruining Jared financially, but destroying his life as well. He was on good terms with Alexandria’s trading community. One had to be to be a success in negotiation, in dealing and trading and getting the best price for the finest goods.

There were a handful of shopkeepers and tradesmen who practiced deceptive selling and bartering. They had a penchant for substituting inferior goods, a practice Jared vocally renounced. It had been common knowledge on the docks and in the shops that his refusal to deal with these vendors had spawned hard feelings.

“A generous patron is a blessing from the gods,” agreed Damon casually. “Is he from Alexandria? Perhaps I know of him.”

Hapu’s ingratiating smile faded, his expression closed off beneath hooded eyes. “He is a humble man who wishes his good deeds to be anonymous. Now, which type of gladiators are you interested in?”

Jared reined in the urge to throw the man down and throttle the information from him. His gaze caught Albion studying him, watching him with keen interest. If he didn’t know better, Jared could have sworn the man was reading his thoughts. Like Bryna. The warning tingle returned.

“Something along the lines of a
retiarius
or Thracian would be suitable for my purposes,” he answered.

Hapu nodded curtly. “Albion, bring the Thracians forward.”

Albion grunted, motioned three men over. They stood as proudly as their trainer, used to such frequent inspections.

“You can have the lot of them for ten thousand pieces of silver,” said Hapu.

It was a ridiculously high price. Having no intention of buying any slaves, Jared opened his mouth to speak, but Albion cut him off saying, “They are not ready.”

Hapu glared at the gladiator. “It is not your place to say! I am the master here.”

Albion sent him a look that refuted that claim. “The Roman wants fighters. These men not ready.”

Hapu’s face turned purple with rage. Jared held up his hand. “A trainer would know if his pupils have learned their lessons. I am willing to take Albion’s word on the matter.” His gaze met the barbarian’s. A glint of respect flickered behind the man’s eyes.

“When will they be ready?” Hapu hissed.

Albion thought for a long moment. “I do not know this. They will be ready when they are ready.”

Jared thought Hapu might explode. Unfortunately it would not do to have the only link to his unseen enemy die of apoplexy. He held up his hand. “There is no problem. I would not need the gladiators until next month.”

Hapu adjusted his red cloak, huffed out a breath. “Very well. In one month’s time you will have your
well-trained
slaves.” He scowled at Albion, who regarded him with that same blank expression. “Refreshments are being prepared. Please join me.”
Jared lingered as Damon followed Hapu, watching as Albion patted one of the men on the back, steering him from the arena. As Albion’s charges were led away under lock and key, a mixture of sadness and disgust creased the gladiator’s brow. He looked over his shoulder, found Jared watching him. Squaring his shoulders in an all too familiar gesture, Albion threw down his mock weapon and left through another door. Jared shook off the unease that shuddered through him and joined the others.

Three hours and many cups of wine later, Jared had more answers to his questions. Hapu, though still decidedly reticent, did reveal a few more clues.

Struggling to raise the capital he needed to build his facility, Hapu had been approached over a year previously by a man who offered to help him. The man had been dressed in the robes of a desert nomad and arranged for Hapu and his slaves to meet with him at a different location once a month for three months. There, he took possession of large quantities of goods, with directions from the mystery man as to where he could sell the merchandise.

“It was all quality, every bit worth hundreds of silver pieces.” Hapu took another drink, unaware of the wine that trickled down his chin. Damon nibbled on a sour fig. Jared watched Hapu over the rim of the same goblet of wine he had been drinking the past hour.

“That is quite a bargain, gaining profit from stores you had not purchased,” observed Jared.

The fool was too sotted to realize he had all but called him a thief. Hapu grinned, his eyes rolling around comically in his head. Jared might have laughed—Damon did, poorly covering his snort of amusement with a strangled cough—if his frustration wasn’t at the breaking point.

“I praise the goddess Isis for my good fortune,” Hapu slurred then burped.

Jared waved his cup casually. “And do you still meet this man? Surely, your school still needs funds.”

“Oh no,” slurred Hapu, hiccoughing. “I only met him those three times. After that, I did not hear from him again. By then, I had bought Albion and I did not need to sell any goods. Albion saved my school. With each match he won, my wagers increased and so did my wealth.” He motioned for Jared to lean closer. Jared wrinkled his nose at Hapu’s soured breath. His whisper was like a shout. “He’s a barbarian, you know.” He dissolved into a fit of hiccoughs and giggles.

Jared had had enough. There were no more answers to be had from this fool.

“I thank you for your time, Master Hapu.” Jared and Damon stood together.

In a few moments they were outside the house, Hapu’s laughter ringing in their ears.

“If the thief was looking for an idiot to help with his plan, he did a good job picking our good friend Hapu.” Damon rubbed the back of his neck. “Not much information save the mystery nomad. Do you remember insulting someone’s camel?”

Jared rolled his eyes. “No, but Bryna described the man who enlisted Coeus’ help in my abduction as being dressed like a Bedouin.”

Damon glanced back at the walled arena. “That Albion seemed an intelligent sort, too intelligent to be hanging around Hapu once his freedom had been gained. I think he knows more about what is going on than the Egyptian.” He looked thoughtful. “He’s a barbarian like Bryna. Perhaps she could talk to him.”

“No,” Jared answered quickly. “It’s too dangerous.” He shifted under Damon’s scrutiny

“Did you notice the color of his eyes?”

Jared mounted his horse, avoiding Damon’s questioning gaze. “I’m sure there are plenty of barbarians with eyes that color. Let’s go find Coeus, and persuade the good proprietor to tell us what he knows.”

“M
istress, I don’t believe we should be here.”

Bryna patted Talus on the arm, an action that still made the butler very uneasy. “But you said you overheard Damon and Jared talking about a gladiator school.”

Talus swallowed as though his throat were closing up. Bryna could almost pity the man. She’d discovered the butler hurrying from the library and his startled and guilty expression had convinced her something was amiss. With tactful prodding, Talus admitted having overheard Jared and Damon discussing progress in their search for his enemy. The moment he mentioned a gladiatorial school, Bryna’s heart had leapt and her connection to Bran had flared.

“I did, mistress, but I did not intend that you should go there.” He glanced around nervously at the disreputable houses and ramshackle booths where half rotten food and other assorted inferior goods were being offered for sale by equally unsavory vendors.

No, Bryna thought, he would not have expected her to want to investigate an Egyptian. But this Egyptian had bought barbarians for slaves. She tamped down the prick of guilt she felt at disobeying her husband. Jared would be furious when he found out that his wife had failed to follow orders. But his declaration of authority had cast her illusion into dust. Her chest ached. He did not love her.

“Lovely fabric for a lovely lady,” crooned an old, shriveled merchant. Bryna cast a dubious look at the dirty blue linen he held out to her. “I’m sure your fabric is quite lovely, but could you direct us to Hapu’s Gladiator School?”

“Hapu’s is no place for a woman,”

Bryna’s heart stuttered. She whirled in the direction of the deep, accented voice, seeing only shadow. Then, one of the shadows moved. Beside her, Talus inhaled sharply. The merchant, his eyes wide, scrambled back behind his stall.

Bryna’s feet would not move and the fading afternoon sun did not reach into the recesses created by the buildings. The shadow grew larger, looming as it moved in her direction. By increments, the dark shape began to take the form of a man. A man with the same green eyes as her own.

“Oh!” Tears streaming down her cheeks, she hurtled herself into Bran’s embrace.

“Release my mistress at once or...or I shall summon the authorities!” Talus demanded, shrinking back when a ferocious glare pierced him.

“No! Talus. It is all right.” Bryna swiped at her tears, smiling up at the man who still held her protectively against him. “My search is over. This is Bran! This is my brother!”

Talus’ face reflected his confusion. “But...but I do not understand, Mistress. I thought your brother—” His voice trembled as he scanned the intimidating man. “—was a gladiator?”

Bran settled a fierce gaze on the butler and said in broken Greek. “I am not slave. I am free.”

Talus broke into a cold sweat. “Oh, dear.”

Bryna pulled away taking a silent inventory of her brother. The sharp angles of his face seemed more defined, harsher. His eyes, so like her own, always full of laughter, were hard, guarded, and cold. She reached up and touched a thick scar that ran around his neck. He flinched like a wounded animal.

“Did I hurt you, brother?” she asked softly, speaking in their beloved Gaelic.

He visibly relaxed. “I have become unaccustomed to touch.”

Bryna pressed her lips together. Bran, her warrior brother who feared nothing, had changed. “You said you are free.”

Bran scoffed. “As a gladiator, I won my freedom. The Romans enjoy the spectacle of killing.” Bran cupped her cheek in his hand. “The gods have finally heard my prayers. That I should find you, here on the street? It is destiny. We will go to my dwelling. It is not far from here. I have waited long for this day, Bryna. Now that I have found you, we can return home.”

She clenched her fist against the pain in her breast. He had won his freedom and remained in this hated Roman world in hopes of finding her. Home. Yes, now that Bran was found, they could go home.

Images of Eire’s verdant countryside warred with heated gold eyes, an arrogant smile and a tender heart. Bryna, her limbs feeling like lead turned to Talus. “I am going with my brother.”

“Mistress, you cannot,” declared Talus. “What shall I tell the master?”

She looked up at Bran. “Tell him I am going home.

***

Not a word was spoken as Bran led Bryna away from the stunned servant. Her hand, so small within his callused one, was cold and damp. He could feel her trembling.

Following the conversation between her and the servant had been difficult. Early in his captivity, he had decided not to learn the multitude of languages with which he was bombarded. He had learned what was needed to survive, but refused to pollute his mind with more.
Master
had been one of the few he understood.

Was this master someone Bryna feared? He noted how her complexion had paled, her mouth flattened into a thin line. And were those tears he saw in her eyes?  Bran clenched his jaw. He had failed miserably in protecting Bryna before. He would not do so again. If her master came to claim her, he would kill him. He nodded toward a wide alley. “There, the second entry.”

She followed his direction, stopping in front of the small arched doorway of a square, two level mud brick house. Bran pounded on the door, wrapping his other arm protectively around Bryna. It wasn’t a grand palace, but it suited his needs. And it was his, bought and paid for and blessedly separate from the stench of death that permeated Hapu’s school.

A small crack appeared at the door’s edge.

“It is I. Open,” he commanded. The door swung wide.

Bryna followed him into the dim light of the entryway. The weight of her decision to leave Jared without a backward glance, without explanation had left her numb. She peered into the shadows.

“Menw?” Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the slight man closing the door behind them. He turned startled blue eyes to her.

“Bryna!” He looked at Bran. “You did not tell me you would be bringing your sister home.”

Bran rolled his eyes. “Old man, I did not expect to find my sister wandering the streets of this vile city.”

“How is it you are here?” asked Bryna, wrapping her arms around their clansman. She pulled away, her gaze freezing at the stump of his left arm.

Bran explained. “Another slave accused Menw of theft. So his master punished him by removing the hand that had stolen.” Bran explained. “Three days later, the true offender was caught...and hung.”

Menw nodded. “Indeed, he paid the higher price.”

“And you lost your arm because you were a barbarian and so naturally a thief!” spat Bran.

“Bitterness will not bring back my limb.” rebuked Menw. His words were soft but firm, causing Bran to scowl. Bryna quirked her lips. The bard of her clan and her brother had always been known for their sparring. She drew solace in the familiarity of it. “I am sorry for your arm Menw, but I am glad you are here.”

“I wouldn’t be if this great lout hadn’t tracked me down and purchased me.” Bran shifted uncomfortably under the look of gratitude Menw sent him “Come, I will prepare food.”

Hand in hand they followed Menw into a square room, furnished simply with a long wooden table and two benches.

Bran led her to one of the rough, wooden benches, then sat across from her. He’d not released her hand and Bryna was glad, though her heart seized as she studied the myriad of scars on his arms. Menw placed a platter of flat bread and cheese before them, followed by a skin of wine.

“I never stopped believing you were alive,” Bryna said, rubbing the warm skin of Bran’s hand. Tears clogged her throat. “That day...” Her voice grew husky. “That day when we were sold, I thought to never see you again.”