The Patrician (7 page)

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.

The lying bitch.

Oh, the memories had returned, in excruciating detail—the stench of the
taverna
, the solicitous proprietor, the dreary back room.

The fragile beauty with bright luminous emerald eyes, full mouth and taut breasts. The image of the heart shaped face looking up at him, feigned concern marking those delicate features was seared into his mind. He stifled a groan. That’s where he had made his mistake, allowing the vixen to beguile him with her unnatural beauty.

He ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips and allowed the anger to surge through his veins. No amount of lying would save her from his rage when he found her. And he would find her, extract payment, make her beg for his mercy.

After he gained his freedom.

The voices overhead grew louder. Through slitted eyes, he watched as three men, including the one who had visited him that first day descend the ladder. It was the first time he had seen anyone save a scrawny boy who had brought him daily rations of moldy bread and stagnant water.

Approaching him, they fanned out on three sides. Jared made no effort to conceal his contempt. The one he had named
Emperor
, for his sarcastic replies, met his gaze with the usual amusement. “Welcome to Brundisium.”

“Go to hell.”

A sharp pain radiated along his rib cage from a kick by the man on his right. Reflexively, Jared rolled to that side to splint the throbbing, cursed his weakness, his lack of weapon, the chains, the lying bitch.

“Tsk, tsk,” the Emperor said, nodding to the other men, who grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to his feet.

Jared’s legs trembled, protesting the weight but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of falling. Instead, he tightened his muscles and stood up straight, refusing to lower his gaze.

The Emperor shook his head and produced a length of rope which he expertly wove beneath Jared’s upper arms. Jared winced as the bindings were pulled taut. With his wrists still firmly bound in front of him, he was effectively immobilized. 

“I tell you again,” he ground out. “This is an illegal transaction. I am a Roman citizen. It is against the law to sell a citizen.” That he acknowledged that part of his life said a lot for the seriousness of his present situation.

“Still full of crafty lies.” Emperor spit on the floor, “By the gods, we’ll be lucky to get four hundred
sestarces
for your worthless hide.” He motioned to one of the men who produced a grimy length of cloth from his belt.

“You whoreson. . .” The cloth muffled Jared’s protest, but not the seething anger raging inside. He bucked and pushed against the men as they released him from the chain, straining against them even as they looped a thick leather strap around his neck. Even in his weakened state, it took all three of them to hustle him to the hatch and up onto the deck.

The brilliance of the sun seared into his eyes, blinding him, shocking him to a standstill. The Emperor’s henchmen took advantage of the break in his resistance and pinned him against the deck railing while the rest of the cargo was unloaded.

Jared swallowed, the bitter, sour taste of the cloth causing him to retch. The world around him was blurred but the sun’s rays warmed his chilled skin. He tilted his head, savored the sea scented breeze that brushed his cheek. The scent of freedom.

In increments, his vision adjusted and he was able to see. The cretins still held him against the railing but it gave him a good view of the dock. He’d only sailed here a few times over the years, the port deemed less strategic than Ostia and definitely less so than Alexandria for the purpose of his shipping concern. On his left, two ships bumped against their moorings.

Jared strained to see what flags they flew. He knew all the merchants that traded between Rome, Egypt, Greece, Persia and beyond. They would be able to verify his identity, put an end to this insanity. But that nugget of hope sank at the realization neither of these ships few banners.

Fighting the weight in his chest, Jared’s attention was drawn to the activity on the shore. A continuous line of slaves, backs bent, dressed in little more than rags, legs and arms scored with lash marks, ferried amphorae and bundles of wheat off the vessels to the landing. Dully, he watched them struggle up a steep, winding path to a trio of stone block warehouses and in moments start the journey back down for more cargo.

How many times had he supervised the handling of goods by his own slaves, never giving a thought that they were anything more than another of his properties? But his slaves were well treated. Fed and clothed. Able to earn coin towards their freedom. Now
he
was the commodity.

Jared’s leash was jerked hard, pulling him away from the rail. A sharp jab from an elbow propelled him down the ramp onto the dock. The muscles in his legs quivered from the shock of standing on solid ground. Pride fueled his determination not to collapse into a heap, anger had him struggling against his captors. Jared bit down on the gag when the sharp sting of a whip slashed across his legs. Emperor’s harsh laugh added to Jared’s rage but when he motioned them forward, he could do nothing save follow at the end of his tether.

It was not far from the harbor to the center of the town. A group of street urchins ran along beside the group, shouting taunts and throwing whatever handy missiles they could find. A large, rotten turnip grazed Jared’s cheek. His muffled growl and piercing glare sent the pack scrambling.

The Emperor laughed and jerked on the strap, leading Jared like an animal through the foul muck of a drainage ditch while he strolled clean and dry along a raised walkway. Jared kept his eyes on the ground, concentrating on every step. It kept him from slipping and being choked by the halter, and relegated to the edges of his mind the gnawing realization that gaining his freedom might not be such an easy task.