Her posture wilted. “Gaius, I—”
“Do not speak.”
Jonathan could no longer enjoy her fear. Gaius appeared ready to strike her any moment. She didn’t deserve that, no matter how much she’d humiliated him on the slave block.
Gaius massaged his forehead and released a long sigh. “Three thousand sesterces,” he mumbled. His head finally came up. “What were your duties in your last master’s house?”
He had no answer for that either. But he needed to think of something. Quickly.
But Gaius’ patience was gone. His face turned crimson and he stood. “Answer me!”
Brennus stepped forward. “Jonathan knows mathematics, my lord.”
Gaius’ brow dipped as his chin drew back. “Do you?”
As well as he knew the constellations and the names and reigns of all the emperors back to Augustus Caesar, the first. This time he remembered the important part of the answer. “Yes, my lord.”
“Do you read?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Can you scribe?”
“Yes.”
“In Greek?” Gaius’ anger must be cooling. His tone was softening, and his face returning to a normal color.
“And Latin, my lord.” Perhaps they had young children the man wanted tutored as Dionysius had taught him. “I know much literature, philosophy, and astronomy as well.”
“And how would you compare Roman philosophers to the Greeks?”
The man was clever. Very clever. “Forgive me, my lord, but as Cicero has been the only Roman philosopher of note, I think it unfair to compare him to the collective teachings of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle.”
A grin formed at the corner of Gaius’ mouth. “What of Ovid?”
The man could test him all he wanted. “Roman to be certain, but a poet and not a philosopher, as I recall.”
From the way Valentina had tensed at the mention of Ovid, she’d probably partaken of the poet’s more erotic writings.
Gaius leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “How is it you’re educated?”
Should he tell him? Brennus’ gaze implored him to answer as much as Gaius’ commanded. He’d tell the truth, because he respected this man already in a way he never would his wife.
“I’m a Roman citizen, my lord. I was born free to a freed slave, the son of a patrician noble. When my father learned of me, he adopted me and raised me as a son until my brother attempted to have me killed eight days ago in Rome. The assassins sold me into slavery instead.”
Gaius and Valentina, even Brennus, stared at him as if he’d claimed to be Caesar. After a long moment, Gaius spoke. “That does explain everything.”
The tension in his body melted like fog in the sun. “You believe me.”
“You have no reason to lie, and I’m an excellent judge of character.” Gaius glanced beside him. “When not blinded by beauty.”
He was going home. “My father will repay you what your wife spent to acquire me, and more I’m certain.”
“I said I believe you, Jonathan, not that I planned to free you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Every slave was once free. Perhaps even a person of distinction in another life that no longer exists. Unless they were born one like Cyra. Even the head servant in my father’s house was a prince in his homeland. It did not make him less of a slave in ours. What we were matters not. Only what we are in the present. And in the present I have great need of you.”
Ache exploded in his chest. Not his battered ribs, but in the center, where his hope of returning home had been forced back into its grave. Gaius and his wife were more alike than he’d first believed. Greedy and without honor, like Manius, who would have taken a lampstand and bludgeoned everyone in this chamber by now and simply walked out.
Walk out. He’d been foolish not to think of it before. Bide his time, a few days perhaps, then leave under cover of darkness. By the time they missed him he’d be out of the city and would somehow make his way home.
“Brennus will show you to my library,” Gaius continued. “Familiarize yourself with the location of my wax tablets and scrolls. Tomorrow, I’ll begin showing you your duties with them and going over my various interests. Brennus can educate you on the rules of the house. There is but one I give personally.”
Gaius turned to Valentina, who still hadn’t stirred at his side. “Anyone who touches my wife forfeits their life. Am I understood?”
“Yes, my lord.” Jonathan understood, but it seemed Valentina should be the one being threatened. Although the way Gaius continued to glare at her, perhaps she was. He could endure her for a few days if he had to.
“One more thing, Brennus,” Gaius said.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I want a slave collar on Jonathan before sunset.”
It was like getting cleaved in two. Gaius Florus might as well be chaining him to the wall. Field slaves, oarsmen on ships, and other slaves likely to flee were made to wear slave collars, or marks burned into their skin. If Jonathan ran and was caught in a slave collar, he would be returned to Gaius Florus within days.
He was never going to see his father or his home ever again.
Chapter 8 – Stand
After two and a half hours by the water clock, the figures recorded on the scroll still would not tally. Jonathan put his elbows on the master’s writing table, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. What was he not seeing?
Everything, unless he opened his eyes and returned to his work. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He dropped his head back to stretch his neck and concentrate.
Finding the theft had been easier in the beginning. Master Gaius had dealt decisively with the thievery among his captains and representatives in their Greek and Egyptian ports. After four years, those that remained and those added to their numbers were either trustworthy or more skilled in their deceit. Jonathan would find the error or the missing goods. He always did.
He grabbed the horse head hanging from his neck and stroked the smooth bone. Cracked vessels or leaking corks? On every single amphora? Did they transfer it to new containers on a different ship while at sea? Wouldn’t a passenger have reported it? Maybe not, if bribed.
“You’re working too hard.” Cyra stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
How long had she been there? “So are you.”
She straightened and glanced behind her before approaching. The smile she wore said they were alone. He rose from the stool and met her on the other side of the table. He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. It had been so long. She tucked her head against his chest and embraced him in return. “Do you know what I like best about watching you?”
“No.”
“The way even at rest I can see your strength. Like a catapult the moment before it fires.”
He smiled against her hair. “Is that all?”
“No. I like how your hair reminds me of charred wood after a rain, it’s so black. I like the way your emerald eyes see things others do not. In scrolls, in problems, and… in people.” She shifted to meet his gaze. “It’s hard to pretend I feel nothing for you when we’re not alone.”
This stolen moment was dangerous, yet he couldn’t bring himself to let her go. Not when it could be months before he could feel her in his arms again. Brennus, Marcus and Titus, or any of the other slaves could appear any moment. He couldn’t trust them not to report to Valentina. Behind their master’s back, their mistress had made it clear if she could not have him, no one would.
He glanced at the doorway. Still vacant. He knew he shouldn’t, but it had been so long.
Cyra’s gaze was on his mouth. She wanted it too.
He never should have kissed her that first time. Or the second. Or allowed her the third. Because now they knew what they were denied in the long months between.
“Cyra?”
He jumped at Frona’s voice, but not as much as Cyra, who put an arm’s length betwe
en them in a single gasp. “Mother.”
Frona’s disapproving gaze traveled between them. “The mistress said to make haste. She’s waiting. And you and I will discuss this later.”
Cyra’s look of shame angered him. “Frona, I can—”
“You’re the head servant, Jonathan, but Cyra is still my daughter. I will do what I must to protect her. As would you, if you truly cared for her.”
That stung. Deeply.
“The mistress is waiting for you. She shouldn’t have had to send for you twice.”
His gut twisted. No wonder Cyra had lingered in his arms. Even now there was an apology in her eyes. He wanted to cup her face, tell her everything would be all right, but the only thing he hated more than a serpent-tongued liar like Valentina was the thought of becoming one too.
Cyra hugged her arms to her chest and started toward Valentina’s chamber. Neither of them met Frona’s gaze as they passed her, and the house felt unnaturally quiet in the late evening. The calm before the storm. Which is exactly what this would be.
Entering Valentina’s bedchamber always seemed to make Jonathan’s slave collar tighten. From the white-knuckled grip on the bronze goblet and the way her eyelids blinked slower than they should, she’d already consumed enough wine to be dangerous.
“You sent for me, Mistress?”
She patted the small portion of couch with her free hand. “Come sit beside me.”
So tonight she would skip the few menial tasks that ordinarily began this game of hers whenever the master was away. His jaw tightened as he approached. He sat on the edge of the cushion as far from her as possible, with both feet flat to the floor and his hands to his knees. The potted palms on the far wall sat in shadow, beyond the strength of the lamps. Enough light reached them he could still count the fronds.
One. Two. Three.
Valentina set her wine on the low table beside her.
Four. Five.
She writhed between his back and the wall.
Six.
Her hands squeezed his shoulders, through the thin linen of his tunic. “You’re always so tense. A massage would soothe that.”
Seven. Eight.
She ran her hands down his arms.
Nine.
Her fingers passed the ends of his sleeves and met his bare skin.
His restraint collapsed, and he rose and strode for the closed door.
“Jonathan, stop.”
Years of conditioning to obey every command drew him to a halt.
“I did not dismiss you.” Anger had risen through the slur in her voice.
He was about to tread on slippery ground. “What is it you require, Mistress?”
“For now, that you come sit back down.”
Every step back to that couch put another stone in his stomach.
She slid her bare feet into his lap. “You may not relish a good massage but I do. Begin with my feet.”
“If you desire a massage I will have Cyra heat stones—”
“I don’t want Cyra, Jonathan. I want you to rub my feet. Now.” Her lids drooped as she reclined deeper against the cushion at her back.
It might work. He took one of her feet and rubbed the arch in slow but firm circles of his thumbs. In time, the pitch of her breathing changed. She was falling asleep, as he’d hoped. He stilled, glancing to see if she reacted.
She did, shifting to pick her goblet back up. Her heel jabbed his thigh as she twisted for the cup. His swift intake of breath was all that kept him from cursing.
“Tell me more about yourself,” she said.
I hate you. “There’s little to tell, Mistress.” He hated calling her that too.
“You don’t say much.”
The corners of his mouth lifted without permission. There were many things he wanted to say to Valentina, but any one of them would see him flogged. Her free foot maneuvered to caress his arm, from elbow to shoulder. He imagined breaking the foot he held in his hands. The toes first, one at a time, then a hard twist at the ankle. Then she would be one of the lame, begging in the streets while some other rich merchant’s wife ignored her from within a litter carried by slaves. He couldn’t suppress his grin then, even crushing his bottom lip between his teeth.
“I like you so much better when you smile.” Her free foot left his elbow for his lap, but it did not come to rest there. Her caress invaded and he bolted upright. The sudden movement spun her off the couch and she fell to the floor, splashing the blood red wine everywhere. “How dare you.”
He strode toward the door. How dare he?
“Stop.”
But he would not.
A sharp pain hit between his shoulder blades. The heavy bronze goblet rolled at his feet, the metal rim on the stone echoing through the tension. He wanted to break her neck. Cut her lying tongue from her mouth. Crush those eyes that always stripped him bare as she had that first day.
She approached and the temptation to hurt her grew as the distance between them closed. “My husband may treat you like the son I have yet to give him, but you are still a slave. My slave.”
The foulest name he knew almost left his mouth. Only the lessons learned under the whips on the long road from Rome kept him silent. The fury in her eyes blazed the worst he’d ever seen. She was going to have him beaten anyway, and that freed his tongue. “I may be a slave—but I still choose my friends.”
Her palm tore across his cheek. As his head snapped sideways, the last of his restraint shattered. He raised his arm to slap her back. Her scream snapped him back and stayed his hand. She ran for her couch, screaming as she went, and grabbed one of the cushions.
He ducked and the silk pillow sailed past his head. Cyra burst through the door. His honor demanded he stay and protect her while his head screamed they were all safer the farther he was from Valentina.
He raced for the garden—the only place here that ever reminded him of home. Flames from the torches on the columns forming the perimeter lit the path to the fountain. The cool water eased the sting in his cheek but none of the anger flooding his veins. He splashed more water on his face, then his arms, trying to wash the memory of her touch away. A lizard appeared on the stone rim of the lowest tier of water. Its round, shiny eyes watched him, blinking every few seconds.
“I envy you.”
The lizard cocked its angular head, as if truly listening.
“I envy you your freedom,” he whispered. The green pointed head flicked toward the villa and then it scurried away.
“He went through here.” Brennus’ voice carried from within.
The ex-head servant carried a coil of rope and Titus and Marcus followed, each with a spear leveled right at his chest. Jonathan retreated as his heartbeat sped so fast he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Another step back and his calf connected with the edge of the fountain.
“Don’t fight, Jonathan.” Brennus made a loop in the end of the rope. The smugness in his expression was unmistakable. He’d needed no persuading to mete out whatever punishment Valentina had decided upon.
Nothing ever changed. The selfishness of others would always control him.
No more.
He would escape or die trying.
Jonathan allowed his rage to burst forth in a shout as he charged. The thick wood of a spear shaft slammed below his knees. He smacked the stone so hard his next breath wouldn’t come. He scrambled to grab the spear, to fight or fall on it, but Marcus kicked him. A sword hilt battered his skull above his left ear. The same place Manius’ assassin had struck.
The same black oblivion pulled him under.
Cold water shocked Jonathan awake. He raised his head and coughed but the motion pulled at his arms. Rope at the wrists—they’d tied him between two of the peristyle’s pillars. Brennus set the hammered bronze pail down beside Valentina. Marcus and Titus were with them, still clutching their spears beside the doorway into the villa. Where were Cyra and the others?
Valentina uncrossed her arms and stopped close en
ough that she stood in his shadow cast by the torches behind him. Her fingertips wiped at the water pooled at his chin and she frowned. “It pains me to see you like this.”
He righted his feet to stand as straight as the bonds would allow. His sandals were still on, and his tunic. The chill of the wet linen against his skin was nothing like the eyes of the woman before him. “Then release me.”
“I will. When you’ve been punished for your defiance, and I’m assured it won’t happen again. Slaves are killed for far less transgressions, so I expect you to be appropriately grateful.”
She took his head between her hands and her lips parted. He tried to turn away, but she gripped him tighter and pressed her mouth to his. Her body followed, pressing the weight of them both against his wrists. The pain at his shoulder pushed a groan through his throat, and she kissed him deeper. Helplessness fanned the flame of his hate until seething fury overcame the pain.
He bit her.
Valentina cried out and jerked back. Blood glistened on her lip. She touched her mouth and stared at her red fingertips, then at him. “Brennus, bring a whip.”
His chest tightened. “The master will never stand for this. Not when he’s told the truth.”
“The truth is what I want it to be, Jonathan. You will see.”
Jonathan pulled hard at the ropes at his wrists, straining as Sampson must have against the pillars of the Philistine temple. The fibers groaned and stretched, but held fast, as he knew they would.
Brennus returned with the master’s leather chariot whip coiled in his hand. At the sight of it pride was forgotten. He would beg, plead forgiveness, anything.
“Ten lashes, Brennus.”
It was the pleasure in her face, echoed in her voice when she said it, that returned his resolve. Beneath that flawless skin, rich linen, and jewels, lived darkness deeper than a cave on a moonless night. Brennus grabbed Jonathan’s tunic sleeve and ripped it clear to his neck. When he tore the other side, the edges fell away and hung from the leather belt at Jonathan’s waist. Jonathan pulled the edge of his bottom lip between his teeth and closed his eyes.
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