Chasing the Lion

by Nancy Kimball

  The same way he always did—with a fake smile, counting the hours until it was over.

  Chapter 5 – Taken

  After enduring the gathering within long enough to please Father, Jonathan retreated to their host’s garden. Moans came from a pair of prostrate bodies in the shadows of the shaped hedges. Even out here there was no escaping the lust and ambition tainting everything about the crowd inside. Picking up a stone and flinging it at them would be childish—and embarrass Father—but he ached to do just that. The water in the fountain chilled his fingers and then his face. He wiped the droplets gathering on his chin with the edge of his toga. The lingering mist would replace them soon.

  “Your father summons you.”

  He spun and gravel scattered beneath his sandal. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

  “Apologies, my lord.” From the tight set of Dio’s lips and crinkled cheeks, he’d meant to startle him. The man’s grin was a month’s journey from an apology in this one-sided game of his they’d played for four years.

  As the closest thing Jonathan had to a true friend, he’d allow the insolence to pass—for the thousandth time. “What does father require?”

  “You already know.”

  Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck and tipped his face to the moon. She would be as ruined by her wealthy upbringing as the ten young women before her.

  “You have cared for none of them because you’ve set your mind against it. Try to make an effort and thank Jupiter your father considers your wishes at all. Such a thing is unheard of among the patricians.”

  “So is adopting an illegitimate son birthed by a freed slave.”

  Dionysius glanced around them before locking his gaze with Jonathan. “That is your brother speaking. Not you.”

  “It doesn’t make it untrue. Or that I came to be like this.” He jerked his chin toward two pale bodies in the shadows. “Or that my mother spent more than half her life as a slave and I spent most of mine without a father.”

  “A father who is waiting for you, and longs to see you happy.”

  For the love of his father, he would make an effort.

  “Stay vigilant.” Dio fell into stride beside him. “Manius is here.”

  Were it not visible in both their faces, Jonathan would swear on his mother’s urn it was impossible they shared a father. So would Manius.

  Servants with pitchers of wine and trays of delicacies wove through the throng of bodies filling the great chamber. In the center, three slave women danced around a man costumed as Liber. Jonathan hated the seventeenth of Martius and this feast. He would spend a few marks of the water-clock with their host’s daughter and leave before the orgia taking root out in the garden would wind its way inside and bloom.

  Manius reclined beside their father, watching the dancers with unveiled eagerness for the very things Jonathan wished to flee.

  “You sent for me, Father?”

  “I feared you’d left without meeting Hadrianus’ daughter.”

  Their host beckoned to someone in the crowd with raised fingers. “Daughter, come.”

  The crowd of people between them parted and there stood a girl. Fine linen the color of a sunrise hugged her body. Dark hair hung in ringlets beside a round face and stopped above the beginnings of breasts rising gently above a golden sash. Lips the color of a seashell twitched in a grin—but an innocent one, if her eyes spoke truth. Not the way other women smiled at him. She approached, stopped, then dipped her head and bent her knees in a small bow. “Welcome, my lord.”

  He opened his mouth, but a mangled breath more gasp than greeting filled his ear.

  Her father chuckled somewhere behind him. “I told you when he beheld my Hadriana that Cupid’s arrow would not be needed.”

  Manius shot to his feet and gripped his half-empty goblet like a weapon. His face flushed the color of the wine he spilled in his haste as he stormed toward the garden. The great room quieted as heads swung his direction.

  Father frowned and turned to their host. “Excuse me a moment.”

  “Of course.”

  Father rose and followed after Manius while Dio assumed a place on the wall nearby. With his gaze and a raised brow, he reminded Jonathan of the importance of relations with the girl and her family.

  Their host returned his attention to his daughter. “Hadriana, keep Cornelius’ son entertained until his father returns.”

  “Yes, Father.” She grasped Jonathan’s hand and he followed. Her lavender scent and soft skin against his fingers sent a ripple of pleasure through him as they approached a cushioned couch against the wall. The horse-hair stuffed cushions in finely dyed purple linen were as luxurious as those in his father’s villa. He sat down beside her, noting that quite a few people still observed them. She shifted to better face him and her thigh brushed his. Her expression lacked cunning, so it had either been an accident or she was wholly unaware of the effect that would have.

  Her delicate brows arched above a perfectly shaped nose. “Your skin and speech are Roman, but your name is not.”

  The boldness in her question surprised him, though it was one he’d been asked before. “I’m named for the husband of a Judean woman who helped my mother raise me.”

  “Was she from Jerusalem, one of the cities that revolted?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m surprised your father allowed it.”

  “He didn’t know.” The words had slipped from his mouth, but as they hit his ears, he cursed himself for speaking them aloud.

  She looked as if she considered this but left it alone. And he liked her a little more for it. A small scar marred her forehead, but asking its origins might embarrass her. She told him of her new kitten and the way her mother bemoaned the snags in her sash whenever she was allowed to play with him. Hadriana had named him Hercules, but her mother said it invited misfortune on them all to name an animal after a god. They called him Hannibal now, after the defeated Carthaginian general from some three hundred years before.

  Not the least bit timid as he was, she did most of the talking while he checked the entrance to the garden often. Dio would meet his gaze and shake his head the smallest measure. Manius finally returned without their father and strode toward their host. They exchanged a few words he couldn’t overhear, and then Manius found the slave girl he’d been watching earlier. He jerked her close and said something in her ear. A servant with a wine goblet blocked Jonathan’s view and when the man moved, he’d lost Manius and the girl. He rose from the cushion in an instant, a boulder in his gut.

  “Jonathan?”

  Hadriana was, of course, confused. She was protected, while the girl Manius had hauled away was not. “Apologies. There is an urgent matter I must attend.”

  He skirted the edge of the chamber, but still didn’t see them. Dio had moved and glanced toward a tapestry near his shoulder. From the fastenings at the top, it covered a passage of some type. Dio moved to pull open the edge and follow.

  Jonathan had to do this alone. “Stay here.”

  “You know I cannot. Manius is in high temper.”

  “That was a command, not a request.”

  Hurt flashed in Dio’s face, a pain Jonathan felt like a dagger to his belly. He would make amends later, but right now he needed to find Manius. Plentiful wine had a way of kindling his half-brother’s dark passions. Anger swelled them like wind to a fire.

  Behind the fabric, enough light spilled into the corridor to make out a long passage. Wooden doors lined both sides, but only one had a trace of light beneath it. He checked that his dagger rested in easy reach at his waist and opened the door.

  He’d been prepared for what he’d see, but his jaw still tightened.

  Manius’ head jerked toward him. “Go away.”

  “You know that is not what our host had in mind when he agreed.”

  The slave girl scrambled from beneath Manius but he yanked her back by her hair. Her muffled cry from beneath the sash tied at her mouth hardened Jonathan’s resolve
. “Let her go.”

  But Manius laughed. “Leave us. Go weep for your dead harlot of a mother.”

  Would that he could slit that sweaty throat wide open. “Let. Her. Go.”

  “Stay and watch if you like. It might make a man of you.”

  “Release her or Father learns the truth of Arvala’s death.”

  Manius froze. His dark eyes nearly disappeared as his gaze narrowed. The young woman twisted upright, but Manius made no move to grab her. She fled, and he rose to his feet in a smooth motion. His hand came to rest on the jeweled handle of the dagger sheathed in his belt.

  Backing down hadn’t been an option from the moment Jonathan had ordered Dio to remain behind.

  “Arvala killed herself.”

  “Your lusts killed her. I saw you heave her body over your chamber railing that night.” The memory still made his insides burn. “I’m surprised you thought to put her tunic and sandals back on before you dumped her to shatter on the stone below.”

  For the first time in as long as he’d known him, Manius appeared afraid. Yet his voice dripped with bravado. “If you wove this tale why not speak of it then?”

  “Because she was already dead and it would only wound Father.”

  “Those things are still true.”

  They were, and it was lawful for a master to kill a slave for any and every reason. Their father, however, led the handful of senators who thought this unjust and sought reform. Father would be furious at Manius and his punishment substantial. They both knew it.

  Jonathan forced a confidence into his posture and expression he didn’t truly feel. “You don’t have to hurt them to enjoy them.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Stop hurting them. If I learn you’ve done this again, I will go to Father.”

  Manius grinned, the wine on his breath strong enough to carry the arm’s length between them. “Understood.”

  Jonathan stepped back into the hall, keeping his hand on his dagger until Manius departed. The weight of what he’d done at last made his knees tremble as he leaned against the wall.

  A figure came toward him, silhouetted against the light from the main chamber. “Are you well?”

  Dionysius. Jonathan breathed easier and pushed away from the wall. “Yes, but I want to go home.”

  Dio sighed and stiffened in the dim light. “Manius has already worn on the generosities of your father’s colleague. If you rush away as well it will further offend him.”

  “Manius left?”

  “Angry and in haste, embarrassing the master yet again.”

  Jonathan smoothed his hair and hoped the trembling in his fingers would stop before anyone noticed. “A little while longer then.”

  Hadriana watched him carefully while he returned to the cushion he’d left her on. “Are you well?”

  “I am now. Forgive my rudeness, and tell me more about Hannibal.”

  She dipped her chin, and pink colored her cheeks. “If it pleases you.”

  It pleased him because Father was pleased, and in truth he did want to discover more about this beautiful and intelligent girl. But not tonight. Not with a raw spirit surrounded by those who wouldn’t have raised voice or hand against Manius for his shameful pleasures.

  Slaves departed and returned with more cushions. Time for him to leave, and he hoped Hadriana’s father would keep her far from what was about to unfold. Father dismissed him, and their host bid him to return soon. Perhaps he would.

  Mercifully, Dio was quiet as they walked. Street torches had already been lit and their flames gave the evening mist a luminescent sheen and distracted from the vermin darting between them.

  In sight of the villa gate, a woman in a peasant tunic emerged from an alleyway. “Please, my lord, my child!” She turned and bolted back the way she’d come.

  Dio grabbed his arm. “It’s dark, my lord. We must—”

  An infant’s cry pierced the air and Jonathan jerked free. He plunged toward the sound, and slowed when shapes appeared in the shadows. Four men waited in front of a woman holding the screaming baby. He jerked to a stop, and Dio slammed into him from behind.

  Dio’s iron grip crushed his upper arm as he threw him backward. “Run.”

  He drew his dagger instead but a resounding pop filled the alley. Why hadn’t the men moved? Why hadn’t Dio? He glanced right and in the dim shadow saw the bolt of a crossbow protruding from Dio’s chest as he sank to his knees.

  Jonathan dropped the dagger and fell to his knees beside Dio. A baby was still crying but—

  Strong arms shoved him to the street, flattening his body to the filth-covered stone. He fought against the weight on his back as more men surrounded him.

  “Is it him?” a voice asked over the squalls of the child.

  One of his captors pulled at the leather cord around his neck. “He’s wearing the horse head. It’s him.”

  “Don’t tarry.” The gruff voice was close, but not the man pinning him down. “Kill him.”

  “No.” His captor twisted his arm behind his back. The searing pain in his shoulder rivaled the sight of Dio’s lifeless body beside him.

  “We kill him, or we don’t get paid.”

  Manius.

  “We’ll get more for him as a slave.”

  Jonathan threw his weight hard to the side, but couldn’t free himself. Pain exploded in his skull and everything disappeared.

  Chapter 6 – Slave

  Squeals pulled Jonathan awake. Ropes chafed at his wrists and wrapped tightly around his mouth. His eyes weren’t bound, but there was no light, only heat and an oppressive weight holding him down. The harder he tried to free himself and draw a full breath, the deeper his panic became. Pigs. The squeals belonged to pigs. Why couldn’t he smell them? The aroma surrounding him was earthy, but not foul. He breathed as deep as the thin air allowed. Grain. He shifted between the canvases pressing him on both sides. They’d put him between bags of grain in some type of cart.

  Dio was dead. Dio was dead because of him. That pain overwhelmed the ache in his temple. Whoever attacked him had taken his tunic and sandals. He worked his hands to his chest and found his mother’s carving. Relief poured through him they hadn’t taken that too. He’d have to escape. The longer it took, the harder it would be to get home.

  “I think he’s awake,” a voice called out.

  The cart came to a stop, and he tensed.

  “Get him out. We’re far enough from the city.” That voice was nearer. “Free his mouth and give him some water.”

  The grain was lifted and the sunlight clamped his eyes shut. He squinted, trying to see, while rough hands forced him to his knees. Grass covered hills, fields and vineyards stretched in every direction, dotted with trees, the stone highway looming in either direction. Armored men on horseback surrounded a caravan of wagons and people—most with their wrists bound—being herded like the pigs with them. His throat clenched, even after the man holding his arms removed the rope from around his mouth.

  Another man with a gold key hanging from his neck watched from atop a horse. “I am your new master, Fabricius Clavis.”

  Master? “I am—” His voice barely rose above a whisper and he coughed, hoping to sound like his father. “I am Jonathan Tarquinius, a citizen of Rome and the son of Poetelius Tarquinius Cornelius, the praetor.”

  “And I’m Gaius Julius Caesar.” The man laughed and gestured to his horse. “And this is Romulus.”

  Laughter rang out through the guards.

  Jonathan drew up straighter, jerking his arm free from the man who held it. “I’m no slave. You appear Roman, so you know who my father is. He will reward you for your trouble, but you must release me at once.”

  The man’s brows arched, and he edged his horse closer. “You don’t give the commands here, slave.” His expression changed, and his voice lowered. “I am the father of the man who attacked you. Therefore you know that even if I wished to release you, I cannot.”

  “I told you the price he
would bring—” the man behind him began.

  “I told you to be silent and never act without my approval again. Were it not for your mother I would turn you in myself. Now get him some water and chain him with the others.”

  The man pulled Jonathan from the wagon. His feet hit the ground, and he straightened. They weren’t going to let him go. Trying to run would end badly, but he had to try.

  A few strides gave him hope until he heard a horse galloping behind him. Something snared his ankle and he slammed into the stone highway face first. A knee to his back kept him there.

  “We’ve got a runner.” Someone laughed and strong hands forced Jonathan’s ankles into thick metal bands. The chain rattled, chilling him as much as the cold metal. He wanted to scream in outrage, but couldn’t draw the breath required. But he could still fight. He had to.

  “Be still, slave.” A hobnailed sandal crushed his throbbing head into the stone pavers of the highway. Grit ground into his skin as he struggled against the brass studs digging into the flesh of his cheek.

  “Careful of his face,” Fabricius yelled.

  The guard above him chuckled but the foot left his face. They replaced the rope at his wrists with iron. A sword tip pressed between his shoulder blades convinced him to lie still.

  They hauled him to his feet and yanked him toward the wagon. Jonathan thrashed at the man closest to him, trying to use the chain as a weapon, but stumbled. The guard passed the links through a ring at the rear of the oxcart while the ringing laughter of the others reminded him of the bullies in his childhood.

  “Enough delay.” Fabricius turned his horse toward the head of the procession. Guards assumed their posted positions, and the slaves leading the oxen urged them forward.

  Jonathan didn’t move, even when the oxcart drew the chain tight. The unforgiving irons jerked him to his knees, towing him like a boat anchor on a smooth river bottom. Only the stone wasn’t smooth. Soon his knees trailed blood on the dirty gray stones. The shackles on his wrist were going to tear his arms off.