The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance (2 page)

Everything started to move in slow motion. Damon watched him center the spike and lift a heavy, iron mallet. In spite of his determination not to react, he cringed at the first blow.

“Pio, there is nothing like watching the wretches’ faces as you set the cross in the ground.”

Another blow with the mallet. Damon fisted his hand, felt the tip of the spike against his skin. The next one would sink into his wrist, lodge between the bones in his arm. “Rot in Hades, bastard,” he rasped.

The old soldier paused mid-swing, pinning him with a malicious glare. He glanced at his cohort. “Pio, you take over. You need the practice.”

For the first time in his life, Damon thought, he’d been better off keeping quiet.

The eager apprentice replaced his mentor, his scrawny arm wobbling as he lifted the hammer. It connected at an angle to the head of the spike, causing the sharp tip to slip, gouging Damon’s forearm from wrist to elbow. Sharp—edged pain blended with the raucous laughter of his executioners forming a sinking well of despair in his gut. He
was
going to die. There would be no miracles. Damon took a ragged breath, grit his teeth. He almost wished he believed in miracles.

“Here boy, give me the mallet back.”

Damon closed his eyes, waited for the nail to rip his flesh, splinter his bones. Waited. And waited.

When it didn’t come, he opened his good eye. Light from the fire sent shadows flickering in a macabre dance around him. He heard a muffled oath. To his left, the old soldier stood with hands on hips, a scowl twisting his already ugly features, listening to an officer in a flowing, scarlet cloak. His superior gestured toward Damon.

A shiver of fear bolted through him. What new torture were they devising for him? Why didn’t they just get it over and done?

Just as he had convinced himself they meant to crucify him upside down, his arms were released. The old soldier swore, and with Pio’s help, lifted him to his feet.

The world swam in front of Damon’s bleary eyes. He could barely hear for the roaring in his ears. Something about
a huge sum
and
none the wiser
was all he could make out. He grimaced as his arms were twisted behind his back and bound. On trembling legs he was propelled away from the cross.

The shadows blended with the night the farther they walked. It was all Damon could do not to give in to the weakness consuming him and collapse. Call it stubbornness or madness, a little of both, he imagined, but he would face whatever execution method they were taking him to and die looking the bastards in the eye.

A dozen paces ahead, he could see the faint outline of a wagon, its curved sides barely discernable in the darkness. Blinking twice to clear his vision, Damon could see that it was a four—wheeled coach, the type used by the wealthy for travel along the Empire’s extensive network of roads. The pair of mules harnessed to the vehicle nickered in response to the approaching men.

Damon’s guard pulled him up short when the officer leading the way held up a hand. From behind the wagon, a man of towering proportions swathed in a black cloak emerged. With his vision alternating between blurred to blind, Damon could distinguish little about this new adversary save his size and his smoothly shaved head, which seemed to glow as the moon’s rays broke through the clouds.

The man and the officer conversed briefly then walked over to where Damon stood with his guard. Damon was taller than most, but this man was a colossus. A puckered scar ran along his neck and the irregular line of his nose spoke of multiple breaks. A large gold earring swung from his left ear. Damon blinked again, tried to clear the thickening cobwebs from his mind. The man reminded him of an old Sicilian pirate he’d once met in Antioch. A smile tugged at his bruised lips. A pirate in the middle of Rome? He was about to die and that would be the last person he saw? Gods, his life—what little was left of it—was like a Greek comedy.

The pirate crossed massive arms across his chest. He scowled at Damon then addressed the officer. “Is this the best you have?”

If he hadn’t been so close to passing out, Damon would have taken offense at the insult.

“It’s the only one left alive.” The officer shrugged. “Another few minutes and he’d be hanging on the cross too.”

The pirate stroked his chin. “I do not...”

“Kaj.”

The voice floated from behind the wagon, soft, soothing, and swirled around Damon like a fine coverlet of Egyptian linen. Surely nothing less than a goddess possessed such a voice. A goddess? Damon shook his aching head. He really was in bad shape. Now he was hallucinating about beings he didn’t believe in.

The big man strode back to the wagon and spoke in hushed tones to the deity. Damon could not make out what was said but he hoped it didn’t involve human sacrifice. Some goddesses were known to crave such things. After a few moments, the pirate called Kaj stomped back. “Fetch a torch, so that my mistress may see how she wastes her gold.”

Pio raced back to the campfire, returning with a lighted bundle of rushes. Damon was shuffled closer to the wagon, the torch held so close to his face that he felt the flames singeing his beard. He gritted his teeth as the officer fisted his hand in his tangled hair and jerked his head backward, angling it toward the light.

Through the glare of the fire, a petite figure wrapped in a
palla
of sea blue stepped forward. The material of the cloak swathed her from head to foot, draped over her head like a veil and concealed her features. All Damon could see was one slender, alabaster hand holding the garment together.

He watched her cautious approach. She moved with an innate grace, and though she would not stand any taller than his shoulder, there was an air of imperial confidence about her that would put the stodgiest Senator to shame. Even in his dazed state, Damon appreciated the way the material flowed as she walked, shaping to her lush, female curves with each step. A sharp twinge of disappointment struck him when the pirate positioned his hulking form between them. The goddess whispered something. The man gave no indication he’d seen it though Damon would wager the pirate missed little.

The light from the full moon cast a pearl glow around the woman, strengthening his belief in her divine nature. But then she turned and a strand of hair the color of honey escaped the hood’s confines. Damon felt an urge to wind the curl around his finger and tugged at his bound wrists in frustration.

The glare of the torch blocked out her features but Damon could feel her studying him. He grit his teeth, recalling another time inside a slave pen when prospective buyers had inspected an angry young boy in a similar manner. No use spending coin on defective merchandise. To be inspected in the same manner as cattle only fueled his humiliation.

“He will do,” she said in that beguiling voice.

Kaj grunted, obviously displeased. Taking her by the elbow, he escorted her back to the wagon. Damon blinked and shifted in his captors’ hold. He wasn’t finished. The least they could do before they killed him, he thought irritably, was to let him look his fill. All it earned him was a growled curse and a backhanded slap across the face.

Kaj returned, untied a pouch from his belt and tossed it to the officer who caught the jangling parcel with one hand. Damon narrowed his gaze, watched the soldier open the leather bag and visually count the amount. With a self-satisfied smirk, he nodded to the soldiers.

Pio and the old man pushed Damon toward the rear of the wagon where the pirate waited by the door. Kaj handed Pio a length of cloth. Damon growled as the apprentice tied a huge knot in it, shoved it in his mouth and tied it.

Why were they gagging him? He wasn’t going to be conscious much longer, though gods knew he needed to be. This turn in events was happening too fast for the jumble in his brain. He did not like being at a disadvantage.

Damon teetered as the old soldier and Pio urged him up the two steps to the wagon’s rear door. Impatient, Kaj reached down and, with the effort it might take to swat a fly, caught him by the back of the neck and dragged him inside. Damon released a muffled grunt when the cretin dropped him face down on the hard wooden floor, muttering in Greek about foolish decisions and risky business while binding Damon’s ankles with more rope.  Kaj folded Damon’s tall frame into the cramped interior of the wagon. A wave of nausea assailed him as the vehicle swayed violently with the huge man’s exit. Then the door slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness.

The wagon lurched forward, the creaking wheels obliterating the sound of his muffled groan. He would feel every rut and rock between here and—wherever they were taking him.

Chewing on the gag, Damon cringed at the rawness in his throat. He’d gone from crucifixion to being claimed by a goddess in less than an hour.

Perhaps his luck was changing.

“Y
ou are going to twist that finger off.”

Julia’s gaze dropped to her hands. The miniature lion’s head on the gold ring gracing her right forefinger was twisted completely around facing her palm, the skin red from the repeated friction. She fell into the childhood habit whenever her nerves were on edge—and they’d been on the brink for months. Righting the band, she clasped her hands together, settling them in her lap. “You should pay attention to the driving, Kaj, and not to what my hands are doing.”

The wagon lurched sharply to the left as the mules strayed out of the ruts worn into the paving stones of the road. Kaj shrugged one shoulder at the sharp look she sent him and urged the animals back on track. “It’s not too late to end this,” he replied gruffly. “Just slip the wretch into the Tiber and none will be the wiser.”

She looked at him aghast. “There will be no murder!”

Kaj snorted. “Just deception and lies. Your father would be appalled by your plans.”

“Yes, but Father isn’t here, is he?” she answered tightly.

Kaj tensed on the seat beside her. More friend than servant, he had no answer for her, just as she had no answer for Octavian Manulus deserting his family.

Had it only been six months since her father had kissed her on the cheek, promising to return within the week? It was only a short trip to verify the government’s corn shipments, he had assured her, and he would be back in time for the celebration of her birthday.

But she had gained another year, and Octavian had not returned.

Julia stared at the darkened road. Two weeks, then three, until finally four weeks had passed and still her father had not returned. At first she had been certain the weather had delayed him. The summer had been unusually stormy and even as advanced as the Empire’s road system was, it was not uncommon to have a route obliterated by floods.

She had spent another two months convincing herself that her father had gone off on one of his famous tangents. An extremely curious man, Octavian had been known to forget time, purpose and family in the pursuit of new adventures. A different pottery technique, the discovery of a medicinal plant or a new design for a ship prow all were reason enough to delay his normal duties as a Senator. But he always came home.

Then she’d received the message.

Julia tamped down the swell of hurt lodged in her chest. The letter, closed with Octavian’s own seal, had been brief and to the point. Octavian would not be returning to Rome in the foreseeable future. Other interests required his attention. Other interests more important than his family.

She pulled her cloak snug around her shoulders but could not shake the gripping chill that settled in her heart. Her father’s preoccupation with innovative theories, a trait that most spurned as a fool’s dreams, had been accepted with quiet dignity by her mother. While Octavian pursued his wild ideas, Eirenne Manulus had skillfully managed their affairs, while masking the extent of her husband’s wild schemes and maintaining the honor of the Manulus name. Not an easy task in the gossip—ridden world of Roman society.

Julia had assumed the daunting task at her mother’s death two years before and until recently had done an admirable job of it. But Octavian’s long absence now had the scavengers converging on her doorstep and she’d been forced to push her grief aside. The situation was deteriorating rapidly, leading to her desperate decision.

A hard jolt to the right caused Julia to grab her seat with both hands to avoid tumbling to the ground. Kaj swore at the single—axle cart overflowing with refuse that had veered into their path. The driver of the cart made a rude gesture and continued on his route.

A fresh wave of doubt swept through her as she glanced over her shoulder at the wagon. The man—no, the criminal—trussed up in her carriage had almost caused her to abandon the whole idea. Bruised and beaten, a few breaths away from death, he had looked anything but defeated, returning her scrutiny with a flippant perusal that had sent warning chills down her spine.

Julia pressed an icy palm to her cheek. Even now, she could see him regarding her with eyes the color of cold slate. Hard edged and challenging he’d scanned her from head to toe like a predator sizing up a succulent morsel. She swallowed hard at the memory. Suddenly, her conviction that a condemned man would be grateful and malleable seemed a bit shaky.

Kaj interrupted her thoughts. “We’re entering the city.” He swept the hood of his cloak over his head. “Cover yourself, lest someone recognize us and make public our folly.”

Julia nodded and fell silent as Kaj maneuvered the wagon through the traffic clogging the streets of one of the poorer sections of the city. It was dangerous traveling at night, especially along the circuitous route Kaj had chosen. But they could take no chances.

From beneath her veil she peeked up at the four—story buildings rising up on either side of the street. Constructed with poor—quality timber and mud brick, she could see why they were prone to collapse and deadly fires. Her father loved the people of Rome and when a devastating blaze three years ago had obliterated a huge section of tenements killing more than one hundred citizens, he’d made it a personal crusade to see the structures made safe.