The Patrician (41 page)

“A cat!” Cyma exclaimed. She promptly dropped down next to Bryna, began to stroke the cat. This thing called Cuini accepted her ministrations, hissing at the two boys. Julian stood a safe distance away while his brother scowled from his spot next to Bran.

Bryna smiled for the first time since Jared had left. “This is Cuini.”

“It bears little resemblance to a queen,” replied Bran wryly. He fingered his knife as the beast glared at him. “Is this another gift from the Roman?” He could have sliced his tongue out as he saw the cloud settle back across Bryna’s face.

“More like he worried for his life.” Bryna gave the cat one last hug and then handed it over to Cyma, who giggled and rubbed noses with it. She walked with purpose toward the stairway leading to the sleeping chambers. With one foot on the bottom step, she turned back to look at him. “Let us go home, Bran. Soon.”

***

“The sun has been in the sky for hours.”

Jared rolled over and covered his eyes before the heavy curtain was drawn away from the window. Even through his closed hand he could tell how bright it was. “Abraham’s bones! Have you no mercy?” he growled. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but he had a pretty good idea who had dared to disturb him.

Spreading his fingers the barest crack, Jared found Damon standing over him, a fool’s grin plastered on his face. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

The fool laughed. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

Jared sputtered as cold water streamed over his head.

“But I enjoyed that more.”
He sat straight up, holding onto the sides of divan as his head swam, the sunlight burning holes into his eyes.

Through bleary eyes he watched Damon kick at the three empty wine jars scattered on the floor.  The clinking was amplified as though in the depths of some cave. He loosed his hold on the couch to clutch his ears and promptly fell back amidst the rumpled coverings.

“In my opinion, you make quite a pathetic sight.” said Damon.

“I don’t believe your opinion was asked,” growled Jared. It took several more moments before he felt steady enough to sit up. His head still swam a bit, but his vision was much clearer.

Damon picked up several parchments lying among the pile on Jared’s desk. He tossed them back down, disturbing a piece of bread so stale it made a loud thump as it landed on the floor. “It never is,” he answered. He swung a pointed look in his direction. “How long will it go on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stumbled across the room to a small table. The decanter on it was filled with nothing but water. Jared tipped it to his lips, drank every last drop. Still, it wasn’t enough to alleviate his parched throat. Worse, it was churning around in his stomach.

Why did Damon always show up when he was least wanted? He didn’t need anyone to point out his miserable state. When Bryna had left him, he’d buried himself in work, driving himself to exhaustion. It was the best way to avoid thinking, to avoid feeling.

To avoid hurting.

“Of course, you know. One thing that can be said about you, my friend, is that you are always aware. But this time wine won’t wash away the problem.”

“What would you know of problems?” Jared rasped, the water having done little to rinse the muck from his throat.

Damon gave him an enigmatic smile. “Oh, you’d be surprised.” There was an undertone to his answer, one that Jared couldn’t pin down in his muddled state.

Damon sat down in a carved chair and watched over steepled hands as Jared sluiced more water over his face. Determined to ignore his friend, he reached for a length of cotton. His hand stopped midway as he caught his reflection in the silvered mirror.

A wild eyed creature with tangled hair stared back at him. His face was haggard, lined with fatigue, while a heavy growth of black beard contrasted with his pallid complexion. Even as a slave, he had had the color of the sun to lessen the appearance of his desolate circumstances.

What really gave him pause were the eyes. Dull, lifeless blanks of gold.

“Quite a sight isn’t it?” Damon ventured.

Jared rubbed his face hard as though he could wipe away the effects of losing part of himself. “Go to hell.” he snarled.

“I’m afraid that trip will have to wait,” answered Damon matter-of-factly. “At least until I’ve managed to straighten you out.”

Jared wished he had the energy to strangle Damon. As it was, he barely managed to make it back to the couch. His head felt as heavy as a boulder from Gaius’ fields. He cradled it in his hands.

Sending that blasted cat, the last remnant of Bryna’s presence in his life, to her brother’s house had led to this latest binge. The walls hadn’t held up this time. Bryna had made her choice, and damn him, he had let her.

Only Talus knew the reason for his self-imposed isolation. Jared vaguely remembered the butler bringing more wine, looking at him with a mixture of sadness and despair. He knew Talus blamed himself for Bryna’s leaving, but the gut wrenching truth was that Jared had only himself to blame.

“Go away, Damon. Return to Rome and your own house. Why waste your time with a pathetic fool?”

Damon leaned out of the chair. “Never call yourself that,” he said sternly. “Hard headed, yes. Stubborn, willful, petulant? Definitely. But never pathetic.”

Jared snorted, the action sparking a deep throbbing inside his skull. “You think not? Someone is out to ruin me, rob me blind, destroy the business I fought and scraped to build.” He took a gulp of water, swallowed hard. “Even that’s not enough. They want me dead.”

Damon’s gray eyes narrowed. “Another attempt has been made on your life?”

He raked his hands through his hair, winced as his fingers caught in a tangle. “You think being a slave isn’t the slowest, most torturous form of death? No. Whoever wishes me ill wishes me wiped off the face of the earth.”

Damon shifted in his seat. “There are many ways to die. Slavery is but one of them.”

“Damn, Damon, you know what I meant.”

Damon waved his hand dismissively, a gesture that always ended any talk of his past. “We were talking about you. Now, we both know that your skill as a merchant is intact. No other tradesman in Alexandria—hell, probably Rome itself—has the contacts and resources you have. They will fail to ruin you. As to wanting you dead, thanks to your stubbornness that also failed. None of that, however, should cause you to lock yourself in this room for three days, working like a madman, drinking wine faster than your servants can bring it from the cellar.” Damon propped his arms on his knees and leaned forward. “Where is your wife?”

Jared ground his teeth together as a fresh wave of sorrow engulfed him. “She’s gone.” He didn’t want to talk about it, hoped his surly answer would silence his soon to be ex-friend. He should have known better.

“Just like that?” Damon persisted.

“Just like that,” he growled back. “She managed, against all odds, to find her brother and has chosen to return to her barbarian lands.”

“And you did not stop her?”

“I tried. I failed. Life is too different for her here.” Jared swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “I’m too different. She has made her decision, has chosen her past over a future with me.”

Damon exhaled long and deep. “Fuck that.”

Jared sent him a glare that would have made a lesser man cringe in fear. Damon met it with one of his own.

“You are who you are. I’ll wager Bryna understands that better than anyone, and I’d place a like amount of money that she loves you despite it.”

A flicker of hope, so small that it was nearly overwhelmed by the emotions inside him, warmed Jared’s core. To have Bryna love him despite the curse of his blood? “I thought that—for a while—but it is the same. Bryna cannot see past my Roman blood,” he said, feeling the cold of the extinguished spark.

“Anger and hurt caused her to lash out,” reasoned Damon, irritation wrinkling his brow. “Would you cast her in the same class as the tormenters of your youth?”

“No, she is not.” Jared ran his hands over his face. “My life will be nothing without her, Damon. Nothing. But she is proud and her spirit cannot be commanded. I know. I tried too hard and pushed her away.”

Damon raised his palms in a gesture of defeat. “Fine. You’re right. It is your fault. Accept the blame and then release it.” He folded his arms, leaned back in the chair. “It was doomed from the start. A merchant of your stature can’t be burdened with a barbarian wife.”

Jared whirled on Damon. “Do not label her. She is intelligent, generous, beautiful...”

“Kind...” said Damon, studying his nails.

“Yes, kind and clever...” Jared trailed off, glared at Damon’s smug expression. He looked away in disgust. “She must make her own choice.”

“Then give her something worth choosing. Fight for her, Jared.”

He blew out a hard breath. Gods, Damon was right. He knew how to negotiate, fight for the best terms. He knew how to win. “You’re right, Damon. For once, you’re right.”

Damon fished around, found a broken stylus. “Let me make a note of that, lest you ever forget.”

Jared laughed. He strode to the basin, finished washing his face, opened his clothes chest and donned a fresh tunic.

Damon stood. “We have one more part of your miserable life to deal with. My contacts tell me there will be another theft this night from your northern warehouse. I propose we meet the miscreants and persuade them to give up their life of crime.”

Jared smiled tightly. “I’ll get my life back and then my wife.”

“I
should have left you behind.”

Bryna heard Bran but her attention was riveted on the sight of four new gladiators undergoing their
initiation
.

All four were bound to posts and had been stripped of their threadbare tunics. A tall bald man marched up and down, alternately belittling their courage and eyeing the other students who ringed the arena to see that they paid proper attention.

“It is a privilege you have had bestowed upon you,” roared the vulgar man. “A privilege to fight and join the ranks of Master Hapu’s elite school. But first, you must prove you are worthy of this honor.”

Bryna held her breath as the man unfurled a long, black whip from his belt.

“Come, my business is with Hapu. Not the new
doctore.
” Bran cupped her elbow in his hand, guided her toward the long hall leading into Hapu’s house. She had to almost run to keep up with her brother’s long strides. Still, the whistling scream of the lash followed by the sharp crack of leather meeting flesh reached her ears, along with the choked cry of one of the new gladiators. Bran all but pushed her into the entryway, slamming the door shut behind them.

“That man has replaced you?” Bryna asked, her voice trembling. At the first sight of the bound slaves, the memory of Jared’s lashing and the fear she had felt that day leapt up and nearly strangled her.

Bran nodded curtly, his anger barely restrained. “Aye, the bastard seeks to teach the men to fear.”

“And you taught them to fight.”

He looked at her sharply. “I taught them to live!”

Bryna reached for his hand. He nudged her away, guiding her, still by the elbow, toward the end of the corridor.

She didn’t want to feel hurt by his rebuke, but injured feelings still found their way to the surface. It was so ingrained in her to soothe and heal, but her brother was doing everything in his power to prevent her from comforting him.

His walls had become every bit as thick and inviolable as Jared’s.

He had changed so much. His temper was more quickly ignited these days, his eyes always alert, searching, doubting, filled with suspicion. It pained her to the depth of her being to see him so injured. Bran needed the gift of her healing. Just like Jared had needed it.

Still needed it.

No, she had to stop thinking about Jared. It was better this way. Now he was free to resume his life. He was home among his own kind, among his family, his friends.

And enemies.

She pushed that thought away.She shivered, causing Bran to cast her one of his assessing looks. He was always watching her. She tried to smile at him but failed.

He stopped at the end of the corridor before an elaborate bronzed door. Standing guard was a tall, muscular slave, black as a moonless night, head shaved clean of every bit of hair. Unlike the gladiator students who were garbed in thin woolen tunics of blue, this slave wore a garment of white linen.

Bran was taller by a hand, but the guard met her brother’s unflinching gaze coolly.

“I am here to see Hapu,” Bran told him. Her brother’s mastery of the Greek and Egyptian tongues had improved dramatically since their reunion. 

“Our master...”
“
Your
master,” Bran corrected with a growl.

The slave cocked a brow at him. “
My
master has been delayed. He has left word you are to meet him at the training arena.” 

Bran glowered at the guard, who responded with a smug look of satisfaction. Grabbing Bryna by the hand, he headed back down the hall and out to the garden.

“I do not want you near the arena.” Bran said. He found a small stone bench surrounded on three sides by tall bushes filled with bright pink flowers. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he sat her firmly down. “Do not move from this place. I will come for you when I am finished with my business.”

Bryna brushed a straggling branch out of her face. “I would rather go with you.” From the moment she had stepped into the gladiator school she had been overwhelmed with a sense of foreboding. A normal enough reaction, given the nature of the place. After all, this was where Bran had been kept in bondage, and seeing the beating of the new students had done little to assuage her anxiety. Now, the dread welled up again, black and ominous.

Bran’s expression softened for a moment. “This one time, do as I ask, Bryna. Promise me you won’t budge from this spot till I come for you.”

She knew he was thinking of the other time she had disregarded his instructions. “I promise brother.”

Nodding his satisfaction, Bran strode toward the vestibule.