The night lengthened, slipping away under the ever-turning wheels. With each league traveled, Fortunada’s anxiety grew. Ignorance provided her with temporary comfort and safety that was as solid as the mist that crept along the path.
She ground her teeth together until her mouth ached and she felt that certainly her jaw would crack. Unable to hold in her questions any longer, she blurted out, “You were in the legions before becoming a gladiator.” Though Baro knew that fact better than she. “You must have borne witness to a massacre such as this.”
“The attack on our caravan was violent, but the purpose was not slaughter. These men want coin. I assume Dax has a remote camp, and that is where we are all going.”
He gestured to the train that followed. Even in the darkened woods, the bedraggled column was easily seen. Several other carts like the one in which they rode rumbled along behind. Each one was piled high with crates and chests. At the end of the line, half a dozen women were forced to walk. A thick rope encircled each of their necks and then was bound to a longer rope that held them all together. A woman in the middle tripped and fell to the ground. With speed that left Fortunada’s mouth dry, a brigand swooped down. Grabbing the woman by the hair, he pulled her to her feet. With his closed fist, he struck her in the face.
Shrieking in pain, the woman clenched her nose.
“Stop your howling,” the marauder said. “The next time it will be a sword to your throat.”
With a hand to her mouth, the woman stifled her sobs and limped forward, once again becoming a limb of the grotesque creature known as captivity.
Fortunada’s heart ceased beating, and bile rose to the back of her throat. No. No. No. This—all of this—was wrong. She should not be here. “Once we arrive at the camp, what will happen to us?” Her heart began to beat again, this time with such force that she could barely catch her breath.
“The valuables will be sold, along with the survivors.” With a grimace, Baro shifted his leg. “During my time as a legionnaire in North Africa, we received many ransom notices from bandits who kidnapped wealthy Romans. It will be the same for us. Dax will demand that we write letters to our kin, begging for coin. Once it is paid, we will be set free.”
His words did nothing to slow her racing pulse. Fortunada was a patrician, but not an especially wealthy one. Her uncle had come to Rome with a veritable fortune, but in order to keep her with her children, he had given it all to Albinius. Her parents had only a little coin of their own. While she did not doubt that they would spend their last denarius to save her, she knew not exactly where they were.
“How long will Dax wait to get his ransom?” she asked.
“I recall one man being held hostage for nearly a year,” Baro said. “He was so overjoyed when his captors delivered him to us that he sobbed.”
“A year?” Her hands began to tremble, and she clasped them together. “Were there others for whom a ransom was also delayed?”
“There were plenty,” Baro said with a shake of his head, “with stories that do not end as well.”
I know who you are, Lady Fortunada. In Fortunada’s mind, the moments of the attack jumbled together until they overlapped. Although the marauder’s words had been as unmistakable as they were unforgettable, Jana had not spoken her name, of that she was almost positive. How, then, would her attacker have known who she was? In a world where men with money and influence mattered, Fortunada was no one. Why, then, did the attack on the caravan feel so personal?
Instinctively, her hand went to the pouch she always had around her waist, the one that she wore in order to keep Ceres with her. She found only her belt. Eyes wide, she looked around the cart’s bed. There was nothing save for the rough-hewn planks and bits of hay. It could have fallen off at any time and Fortunada would not have noticed. Then she recalled removing her purse and setting it aside as she entered the tent. In her haste to escape her attacker, she had forgotten to take the goddess with her.
No wonder she had been taken hostage.
“Is something amiss?” Baro asked.
“I lost my purse. I think I left it in the tent,” she said, immediately aware of how ridiculous her worry sounded. So many others had lost much more than that this night. Including dear Jana, who was lost the moment the attack began.
“It is gone now,” said Baro.
“I suppose it is.”
Fortunada tried to pray. The words evaded her. With sagging wooden boards beneath, the coppery scent of blood filling her nose, and ash coating her skin, Fortunada feared that Ceres no longer cared to hear her supplications.
Fortunada recalled only a few days past when Albinius had taken the children from Rome. In that moment—when grief and fear had sunk their claws into her side, and the temporary separation seemed like an eternity—Fortunada had felt forsaken by the goddess. Now that her life was truly in jeopardy, she saw that perhaps her former plight had not been so dire.
In truth, she was blessed. Her children were with Albinius and not with her—suffering the same fate, or perhaps worse. The words to a prayer for the safekeeping of Genaro and Cornelia came as easily as her next breath. Stars stretched out in the heavens above. Cold and remote, they brought neither illumination nor warmth. Was the goddess like that, too far away to be helpful? Or was it entirely different? Were the stars actually prayers? Though they were distant, they still shone down as beacons of hope.
Either way, she felt insignificant and isolated. No, she was not alone, she reminded herself. She had Baro. Knowing that he was with her brought more comfort than a warm blanket on a cold night. “Thank you,” said Fortunada, “for saving me. I know not what would have happened had you not arrived when you did.”
“Whom would I save, if not you?” asked Baro.
“What an odd turn of events. Just a few days ago I cursed your name and swore that we would never marry if my life depended upon it, and now—” Fortunada shrugged. They both knew all too well that her life did depend on their marriage, even if it was a ruse.
Baro cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “Remember, you are my wife. I will keep you safe, Fortunada. You have my word upon that.”
He spoke with such conviction that she sat taller, and a flicker of hope shot through her spine. It was extinguished as quickly as it came.
I will keep you safe. Had she not spoken those exact words to Jana? And look at how miserably she had failed. Jana’s loss created a fissure in Fortunada’s heart, one that she knew would never heal. She prayed that Ceres would take the maid into her keeping and protect her, a task Fortunada could not accomplish.
And now Baro was to be Fortunada’s protector. He was more than an entertaining gladiator, skilled with a sword. He was brave—almost fearless, strong and intelligent. Even with his attributes, they were at a deadly disadvantage. She looked about her, at all the armed men, and knew not how he would save himself—much less her. Slumping back, she was as she had feared all along—forsaken.
The cart continued on, passing through a wooden gate before stopping. A group of growling mongrels approached. One dog, as tall as a man, stood on his hind legs and stuck his large black head through the slats. Snarling, he bared his teeth and clawed at the cart as if he would climb in and devour Fortunada whole. With a scream, she shrank away.
Still on horseback, Dax approached. “Down, cur,” he bellowed while delivering a kick to the dog’s side.
The savage beast yelped once and ran away, his tail between his legs. The other dogs followed.
“That was awful,” said Baro as Dax rode on.
“It was just a fright, really,” Fortunada began. Even in the dark, she saw Baro’s look of confusion. For a moment she felt perplexed. “You were worried for the dog, not me,” she said, understanding fully.
“Your safety is always my concern. Yet, how can you not feel admiration for such a noble dog that is badly mistreated? You could
see all his ribs. And that cut to his flank? It came from one of these bastards, of that I am certain.”
“I saw nothing of the dog’s ribs or legs. I noticed only his vicious nature and his mouth filled with sharp fangs.”
“He is ferocious because he is mistreated. Just as a child who is loved will become loving, so will a dog.”
“Well, it matters little why he became how he is,” said Fortunada. “He is dangerous. Heed my words—that dog would kill either one of us if it got the chance.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Baro. “I just cannot help thinking that in the hands of a kind master, he would be different.”
Baro leaned back to watch the dog as it ambled away. His words and the sadness she saw in his eyes spoke of Baro’s deep compassion. Perhaps he did know what it was to love another who needed him, not just desire something that was out of his reach. If they had married, he might have been a good father. That realization saddened her. All the same, it would not do to waste her time wallowing in what might have been, especially when there were more important things that needed her attention—like survival.
The driver jumped down from his seat and opened the cart’s rear gate. “Follow me,” he said. The marauders’ camp consisted of a dozen tattered tents that all lined a single lane. A sliver of a moon hung low in the sky and offered only the slightest illumination. Holding on to her skirts lest she trip over the hem, Fortunada walked with care.
The driver stopped in front of a tent—much like the one the caravan had prepared for Fortunada. “Dax says you are to stay here tonight as his honored guest. He also says that if either of you tries to escape, he will kill you both.”
“Understood,” said Baro. He limped forward and held open the front flap.
In the shadows among the darkness, Fortunada saw the outline of a single bed, along with a table and chair. The flap fell shut, enveloping her in black. Feeling her way forward, Fortunada found the table. Upon its top she found a fire starter and some dried mushrooms for use as tinder. Next to it all sat a squat candle. She squeezed the fire starter once. The metal of one end scraped against the flint of the other. Sparks jumped to life and caught the tinder on fire. She carefully held it to the candle’s wick and waited for a flame.
In the light, the room was what she pictured it to be—clean with sparse furnishings.
“These marauders must have taken men of quality hostage more than once. I can only imagine the ruckus some old aristocrat would cause if they tried to throw him in a pen,” Baro said with a laugh.
He stood by the door. Even in the darkness she could see the shadows under his eyes. “You are unwell,” she said as she moved to him.
“Just a little tired,” he said. “Being a noble hero always wears me down.”
Fortunada ignored his feeble joke, lest he try to tell more. “Come.” Slipping her arm under his shoulder, she led him to the narrow bed. “Lie down.”
“Why? Do you plan to seduce me?”
“My only desire is to ignore your antics. Lie back, I need to see your leg.”
“There are more interesting parts I can show you.” Baro lifted his eyebrows up and down. Even in their predicament, Baro remained joyful. With a shake of her head, she chuckled.
“I like the music of your laugh.”
“You flatter.” Her words brought back the memories of the day he had proposed. Fortunada looked away before he noticed the color rising in her cheeks.
“Never. It is always the truth between us,” he said.
His words hung in the air and swirled around memories of happier times. Her eyes were drawn to his lips. She swallowed down the desire to kiss him. An occasional laugh to keep despair at bay was appropriate during captivity, but not a tryst.
Crossing to the table, she retrieved the candle. “I am no medicus, but I am a mother. After all the activity tonight, I fear your wound has become polluted.” The once-white cloth was now brown and gray with dirt and ash. Splatters of dried blood blackened the bandage as well. “The dressing on your leg should be changed. Then the wound washed and some willow salve applied.” She rose to her feet. “I will return momentarily.”
“And I will be waiting,” said Baro, flippant as ever.
Fortunada gave a small smile and shook her head. His jovial manner belied the seriousness of their plight. Yet, as she walked, she noticed that the muscles in her neck and shoulders were less tense, and her jaw was not quite as clenched. Perhaps his jests—weak though they were—served a purpose higher than mere entertainment.
At the door to the tent, she lifted the flap. As expected, Dax had posted a guard. “Bring hot water, a cloth, and willow salve. My husband”—the words tasted of sweetness and sorrow—“needs his leg wound tended.”
From his seat by the campfire, a marauder looked up and regarded her with small, dark eyes. “You cannot ask for anything,” he said slowly. “You are a hostage.”
“I ask for nothing,” said Fortunada. Her face grew hot with embarrassment that this man, this criminal, would refuse her. “I demand that you retrieve what I require. Now,” she added after a pause.
“Who are you to order me about? I have come here because patricians, people like you, stole my lands while I was away protecting the republic.” Each word was punctuated by a jab of his finger upon his open palm. “And for whom was I protecting the republic? Not for me and mine, that is certain. Here we are equals. So, do not presume to order me about.” He rose to his feet and stalked toward her. Wrenching the door from Fortunada’s hand, he closed it with a snap.
For a moment she stared at the seam. The man had a point, or so she assumed. Still, Baro’s needs had nothing to do with Rome’s social classes.
She opened the flap. The man had returned to his seat by the fire. She cleared her throat and he peered at her from over his shoulder. His small, almost piggish eyes took her in from the top of her mussed hair to the hem of her frayed and dirty gown. In this bedraggled state, they really were the same. Although in truth, she was the weaker of the two.
“Here we may be equals,” she said. “But my husband is a god. How do you think the republic will thank you when you take away her champion? Make no mistake, I will let them know that it was Dax’s man, the one with the beady eyes, who refused water and salve to Baro the Equestrian.”
Color drained from the man’s face, and his mouth hung open. And with that, Fortunada pulled the tent’s flap closed.
Chapter 17
Baro
Fortunada had more spirit than anyone Baro knew. No wonder he loved her. Or used to love her, that is. Still, it should not be him lying abed as she fought for his comforts. He was Rome’s gladiatorial champion, after all—famous for his prowess against all foes. Baro shifted to sitting, and pain shot through his thigh. Slowly, he lay back down to focus only upon his breath. After a moment, the pain subsided.
Opening one eye, he found Fortunada standing above him—watching. Her brows were drawn together in concern. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and then spoke. “How badly does your leg pain you?”
“It will heal,” he said.
She knelt beside the bed and took his hand in hers. Her skin was so soft. At the same time her grip was reassuringly strong. He traced his thumb over the back of her wrist. “What will happen to us now?” she asked.
“As I said earlier, Dax will ask for a ransom. Demands will be made. Letters will be sent.”
“And until the coin is delivered, we will be held hostage here? Unharmed?”
“The safety we have now is all relative,” said Baro. “Yet, I cannot wait here until a ransom is paid. I left Rome to fight and rebuild my reputation, you know that. What you do not know is that I have no coin.”
Fortunada lifted one brow. “Oh?”
“I gave all my winnings to my lanista for safekeeping. In a wager I knew nothing about, he lost it all.”
“The fight,” she said quietly, “you lost for me.”
Baro knew not if it was a question or a statement. It mattered not. She had spoken the truth. “I am Baro the Equestrian,” he said with a laugh. “Known and revered throughout the republic. Now look at me. I am injured, destitute, alone.”
Fortunada sat on the edge of the bed. “You are not alone. I am with you.”
He wanted to kiss her and hold her. In her arms he would believe. Believe what? In happiness or love or hope. Those lofty ideals meant little to him now. He wanted only to keep his word and save the ludus. Baro’s chest constricted. Tears stung his eyes. He must have spent too long in the burning litter.
“If I do not get to Novum Comum, then I forfeit the fight,” he said, swiping a hand across his watering eyes. “Your former husband offered generous terms.” A truly horrible thought occurred to Baro that sent a knife of pain through his temple. “Or have you remarried Albinius?”
“We have taken no vows, though he has used much of the money provided as a dowry already,” she said.
Her words were far from an answer. In Rome, marital unions could be made and broken with a simple agreement and an exchange of coins. Baro knew not if she were the wife of another man. But Fortunada gave him little time to ponder, as she added quickly, “I do know that Albinius wants you to fight in Novum Comum. It is a good way for him to build his reputation as a lanista. He will not hold any delay caused by this captivity against you.”
Albinius. The Rube.
“The ludus is insolvent and needs my fee now. Without this fight, the other gladiators will be sold.” Baro thought of Paullus being without a home as well. If the lanista found himself and his family upon the street, it would be through nobody’s fault other than his own. At the same time, Paullus had pulled Baro from the sea of despair and saved him from drowning in a life gone awry. For that reason, and others, to be sure, he could not turn away from his task.
The Gladiator's Temptation (Champions of Rome) Page 11
