The Patrician (9 page)

By the time the baskets were filled with flour, she had a plan.

***

“Good day to you, sir.”

Gaius Tiberias Crescens nodded his acknowledgement to the foreman of his quarry. Throwing the reins of his horse to an old slave so hunched with age that he marveled he didn’t tip over, Gaius dismounted, motioning his farm manager to do likewise. With some effort Baal hoisted his stocky frame from the saddle.

The foreman placed a dirt streaked fist over his breast in salute. “We are honored by your presence, oh noble one.”

“Of course you are,” said Gaius swishing a fly away with his hand. He scanned the area before fixing his gaze on the man’s. “I own this quarry and...you.”

The foreman looked uncomfortable and nodded curtly. He bowed again but not before Gaius caught the flash of resentment in his eyes. The man had proved an able manager, increasing the monthly production of marble by a good ten percent. Much better than the previous fellow who, for his efforts, now toiled in his Iberian copper mines. He doubted this one would risk the same fate.

“There has been a bout of bloody flux at my villa,” sniffed Gaius. “A score of slaves have perished. I need replacements.”

“I will personally see to the matter.” The manager motioned to his overseers.

“My
vilicus
shall make the selections. Baal.”

The foreman nodded, wise enough not to protest and hurried after Baal. Gaius settled himself under the shade of a jagged shelf of rough stone while his servants scurried to see to his immediate comfort; a folding stool covered with velvet, a goblet of wine kept chilled in a leather pouch packed with the last bit of snow brought from the mountains, a slave to cool the air with a woven fan. Gaius sighed. He did enjoy his luxuries.

He scanned the lofty formations of marble, just able to make out the faint figures of men toiling along the rock edges. At least he thought they were men. They were so covered in marble powder they nearly blended in with the stone. But the sharp clang of hammer meeting chisel assured him the ghost-like figures were laboring hard, making him a rich man.

But there were inconveniences. The air was so thick with dust he could scarce breathe. Gaius motioned for one of his attendants to bring him a moist cloth which he used to cover his nose and mouth. Little wonder the slaves died so quickly here. Fortunately, for businessmen like himself, the slave markets were filled with cheap war captives. On his next trip to Rome, he’d see about purchasing a dozen or so.

One by one, Baal brought the selected slaves to stand before him. He wrinkled his nose at the stench. They were a sorry lot, with dull, lifeless eyes, the dust unable to hide their emaciated forms. Most were half dead. He’d do well to get any work out of them before his fields were planted. He made a mental note to increase his purchase.

“This is the last one master.”

Gaius set his goblet down and glanced at the slave Baal indicated, then took a harder look. 

Standing at least a full head and half taller than the
vilicus
was a slave who stood upright, accentuating the tattered wool tunic hanging in shreds from his shoulders. The man was covered in gray dust like the rest, save for a score of fresh bloody stripes crisscrossing his arms and chest. Squared shoulders, hands fisted beneath the cuffs of the iron around his wrists and a chin jutted out defiantly told Gaius this man, given the choice, would bow to no one.

Of course slaves had no choice.

“Show proper respect to your master, dog.” Baal kicked him at the bend of his knees. The slave fell to the ground and would have risen again but for the strike of the overseer’s whip.

“Noble master. I do not think it would be wise to take this one.” The quarry manager glared at the willful slave, who glowered back from beneath a fall of matted hair.

“He seems strong enough. Better than the rest as a matter of fact,” answered Gaius. “He will do.”

“Your pardon, master.”

Gaius raised a brow. The foreman evidently had a wish to see the Iberian mines.

The fool continued. “He is a troublemaker, a Jew who has not learned his place. I fear you will have nothing but rebellion on your hands. He should stay here so that he might learn obedience.”

Gaius arched a brow. “And how long has he been under your tutelage?”

The manager blinked at him. “Nearly three months, sir, but...”

“But he defies you still, even in the arrogance of his stance.” He stood and motioned to his attendants. “Baal can wear out his scourge on him as easily as you and I will get my fields sowed. Take him.”

Baal planted his foot squarely on the slave’s spine, while pulling his head back by the hair. Still, the man struggled while a thick metal collar was locked around his throat.

Gaius watched, intrigued as the Jew suddenly stopped fighting, allowing his wrists to be bound behind him. Perhaps the slave was not a complete fool and saw the futility of resisting his fate.

His doubts dissolved as the Jew was hauled to his feet. Golden eyes glittering with anger bore into him. Angry slaves were not uncommon, but what was uncommon was the smug satisfaction beneath that hard gaze. It was almost as if he’d done exactly what the slave wanted in taking him from the quarry.

Gaius shook his head then realized his hand was gripping the hilt of his sword.

***

“Open the gate!”

Bryna glanced up at the shout. The handful of slave working around her paused in their duties. More guests come for the feast. A soft, collective sigh rushed out of each of them. More work for them.

She turned her attention back to the fat goose propped between her legs. It was the tenth unlucky fowl she had plucked this morning and her hands were sticky with blood and fat. Downy feathers floated in the air around her, clinging with annoying tenacity on her stained tunic, her arms and even her hair. Gods, she was tired and she smelled like goose.

Keeping her features schooled with indifference, she ignored the trio of chattering kitchen slaves who scurried past, to join the gathering in the walled courtyard. She grasped a short pin feather and pulled hard. It didn’t matter the least to her if they spoke or not. She wasn’t like them after all, content in their servitude.

Still, there was an empty spot inside of her, one that wished for someone to talk to, to confide in, to laugh with. A part of her that longed for a friend.

Gods, she missed laughing. There had been friends in Eire. Moira, the daughter of the bard had been her closest one, and a perfect balance to Bryna’s own passionate, impetuous nature with her solid, thoughtful approach to matters. Her friend had tried to talk her out of going to the shore that day. She sighed and gripped a particularly tough pin feather. Even Moira had doubted her visions.

The din from the courtyard grew louder, drawing every slave from their tasks. Bryna looked around, found herself alone. She set the fowl down with the other carcasses on a plank table, wiping the fat from her hands. Her gaze fell on a small knife, lying close to the corner of the table. 

She chewed her lip. A weapon would be a very useful addition to the supplies she had collected for her escape. Food had been easy enough to pilfer, a water skin less so. She had endured several sharp raps from Eda for losing the master’s property. Thank the goddess the old cloak she had wrapped everything in had not been noticed missing.

Pretending to straighten one of the geese, she covered the weapon with her hand, curling her fingers around the blade.

“Come see the excitement, Bryna!”

Startled, she bit back an oath as the blade nicked her palm. Ignoring the cut, she eased the knife beneath one of the fowl and turned to the young boy who had spoken.

He had never told her his name, saying it was enough to be called Boy. He had been a slave the whole of his life, nearly eight years that much he had shared, having been found abandoned on a trash heap and raised for a profit. Abandoned, she was sure, because of the withered leg that caused him to walk with a profound limp.

Unlike the rest of the household, he had not been afraid to speak to the barbarian girl and often sought out her company when their chores allowed. Bryna had fought against it, but a bond had formed between the two.

Large gray eyes filled with more sadness than any child should ever know watched her intently. For a moment, she thought his gaze shifted to the hidden knife. But he smiled and grabbed her hand. “Come see. The master has returned.”

His excitement was palpable, almost as though he were expecting a gift, and she could not fathom why. There would be nothing for him but harsh words, no sleep, little food and more work. All for the enjoyment and comfort of their Roman master.

He tugged her around the corner where they joined a cluster of slaves, standing and watching the procession enter the courtyard.

A string of twenty mules plodded through the gate, each laden with large bundles, their poor backs bowing beneath the weight. Bryna pressed her lips together. Filled with the largesse of some conquered territory no doubt.

“Look there! Are they not beautiful?” the boy whispered his voice filled with awe.

She followed his gaze to five ornate wagons, each drawn by a beautiful bay horse. As if on cue, the mules veered toward the stables while the wagons formed a semi-circle in front of the villa entrance.

Slaves rushed forward, opening the carved doors closeting the occupants. An elegant lady stepped from each one, well groomed figures draped in soft woolen and wrapped in silken
pallas
. Each Roman woman’s hair was twisted, braided and curled into elaborate styles that had taken some poor attendant hours to create. Gold earrings, heavy with jewels, hung from their ears, complemented by matching necklaces and bracelets that caused an audible din as they walked. Bryna could only gape at the opulence.

As trained as the mules had been, personal slaves rushed forward. Some provided shade with large canopies. Others wielded exotic feathered fans, chasing away the hot air from their mistresses. The women greeted one another, laughing and chattering amicably as they entered the residence.

Six men reined their galloping steeds to a halt behind the wagons, sending up brown clouds of dust. Three small children barely missed being trampled by their dancing hooves. The men  laughed as the children scrambled to safety.

Bryna’s stomach churned with disgust. Every piece of fine clothing, every morsel of food, even the elaborate jewelry was earned on the back of a slave. Little wonder that most of the Roman’s she had seen were soft and bloated with overindulgence. How had they managed to conquer a world?

Yet, when she glanced down at the boy beside her she did not see resentment or hatred in his eyes. None of the feelings which had consumed her from the moment the chains had tightened around her were etched on his youthful face. No, all that she saw was longing for something he would never receive. It was almost too much to bear.

“Boy, I must get back to my tasks, lest Eda think me idle and loose her tongue on me.” Or worse.

He nodded absently and sighed. Her heart constricted. How she wished she could take him with her. Knowing the futility of that hope she squeezed his hand and was rewarded with a wan smile. As she turned, a sharp cracking noise drew her attention once more to the courtyard. The mules and the master’s rich Roman friends had not been the only members of the entourage.

A line of filthy, ragged men came stumbling into the villa, urged on by three overseers brandishing long leather whips. There were seven in all, each with his hands tightly bound behind him and an iron collar and chain tethering them, one to the other.

“Our master has brought new slaves to tend his fields,” whispered Boy. “To replace the ones who died.”

Bryna’s heart swelled with pity as she watched the bedraggled men stumble along.

“A Roman’s prosperity is known by the number of his possessions,” continued Boy, his tone matter of fact, “Land, jewels, gold, silver and slaves.”

Bryna grimaced. “Then this Roman is indeed a rich man for there are more of us here than there are of them.” She studied the motley group covered with dirt, sweat, and blood. Some cringed when the guards raised their whips, others just sank to their knees, exhausted, not caring.

All but the last one in line. Bryna took note of the man’s proud stance. He didn’t cower before the guards, though his

trembling legs belied the effort it took to stand his ground.

H
e was well formed with a wide chest tapering down to a taut waist. The leanness of starvation only accentuated hard corded muscles in his arms and legs. Patches of deeply bronzed skin showed through the grime that coated his body.

Familiarity flashed through her, sending numbing coldness through her body. She rubbed the back of her neck, and a strange uneasiness coiled within her as it always did just before a vision. Was her sight returning? She studied the man again.

Black hair, tangled, dirty, and matted with blood, fell to his shoulders. His beard, equally unkempt, covered a stubborn jaw that was set rigidly with ill-concealed fury. His dark brows were drawn together into a scowl. An expression that she’d seen before. Bryna froze as his gaze swung in her direction.

Those golden eyes were every bit as hard and unyielding as they’d been in the desolate room in Alexandria, more so now that they carried an edge as sharp as a spear. He scanned the courtyard lingering an inordinately long time on her. Bright and glittering, rivaling the adornments of the Roman matrons, they seemed ready to ignite, burst into flames and set the entire place afire. Her throat felt like it was closing. It could not be true! It could not be
him
!

“Are you all right?” asked Boy, tugging on her skirt.

“What?” Bryna turned to the boy, letting out the breath she had been holding. “Uh, yes. Yes, I’m fine,” she answered. Oh gods, no she wasn’t.

A strange mixture of relief and dread filled her. Her lie had not sent him to his death, yet by the look of him, she wasn’t sure he would thank her for that.

A sudden urge to run gripped her. She turned to make her escape but was blocked in by the group of slaves who had come to welcome their master home. They scowled at her, refusing to let her pass. Reluctant to draw attention to herself, she faced the courtyard. The new arrivals were being led to the blacksmith’s forge.