Gestas stayed close, his hands braced on either side of her like a cage.
She gulped air until her vision cleared, then glared up at him. “Just leave me alone. I promise I won’t tell about the priest.”
His hooded eyes swept over her. “Oh, I know you won’t tell.” He smirked. “Of course you won’t tell. And now—now that I know your secret, Nissa—I think you’ll do even more for me.”
She pressed against the door, wrapping her arms over her chest. Anger seeped through her limbs, replacing the weakness.
Gestas’s low voice sounded like the snarl of a jackal. “Don’t worry about your virginity just yet. I’m not that desperate.” His gaze traveled down her body. “It was too much, wasn’t it? The blood? The smell of death? If I was a betting man—and I am—I’d say you promised yourself you’d never pick another pocket.”
She pressed her lips together. What was Gestas getting at?
“You can tell me. Someone’s going to have to break it to Dismas.”
She might as well. He’d find out when she didn’t show up in the meeting place. She swallowed and croaked, “Never again.”
He flashed his pointy teeth at her. “That is where you are wrong, my dear girl. But you’ll work for me now, not our dimwitted Dismas.”
Nissa’s hands closed into fists. I’ll never work for him. I don’t care what he does to me.
“And another thing,” Gestas went on like it was decided, “Dismas has a soft heart. He gave you too much. An apprentice should work for nothing, and that’s what you are from now on. I’m your master.”
She gritted her teeth and straightened her back. Her knees still shook, but her voice was stronger. “I won’t steal for you.”
Gestas glanced behind him toward the still-empty street. He pulled the dagger—the dead priest’s dagger—from his belt.
Nissa’s mouth went dry, but courage swelled within her. She wouldn’t work for this dog. “Go ahead. I don’t care what you do to me.” She choked out the words. “No more stealing. No more killing.”
Gestas’s snake eyes hardened. “No killing? Well, that will be up to you, Nissa.”
Her heart hammered in her chest. What did he mean?
“I asked around last night about Nissa and her brother, the am-ha-arez who was once blind. Cedron is his name, isn’t that right?” He tested the point of the dagger on his finger. “It would be a shame for him to lose his eyes, or even his life, after he just regained his sight.”
Her legs weakened again. Not Cedron. She was the guilty one.
Gestas ran his finger slowly down the gleaming blade.
Nissa’s throat tightened. Gestas wouldn’t hurt Cedron. She thought of the priest dying in a pool of blood. Yes, he would. Fear shot through Nissa like a lightning bolt. She had to get away, warn Cedron. She pushed at Gestas, her hands scraping at his face like the talons of a hawk.
Gestas was faster. He caught one hand and twisted her around, slamming her face into the wooden door with a hollow thud. His body—hot and smelling of sour sweat and cheap wine—pressed against her back. The cold blade of his dagger bit into her neck.
“Nissa”—his voice was soft in her ear, like a caress—“your brother will be safe and live a long life . . . if you do exactly what I say.”
A bubble of panic rose in her chest. Do what he says? Work for Gestas? Steal and kill again, with no payment? She struggled against his heavy body. Hot pain sliced under her jaw. A trickle of warmth ran down her neck.
“Nissa,” Gestas purred, “you don’t have a choice.”
His words chilled the blood pounding in her veins. How many times had she heard them? But now the dark voice in her ear was all too real. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“What’s your answer, little Mouse?” Gestas ground his body into hers, his breath hot on her neck.
There was only one answer. “Don’t hurt Cedron.”
The pressure against her lightened. “Say it. ‘You are my master.’ ”
She gritted her teeth. The knife at her neck pressed deeper.
“Say it, Nissa.”
“You are my master.”
He released his hold on her.
She fell to the ground and huddled against the wall, as far from Gestas as she could get.
Gestas towered over her. “We’ll wait a few weeks, until they stop looking for us. But when I make the mark on the wall, meet me in the usual place.”
He crouched down beside her and pressed the knife against her cheek. “And don’t go running to Dismas. If I find out you’ve told him about our little arrangement, I’ll make a surprise visit to your brother.”
When she caught her breath and looked up, he was gone.
Nissa curled more tightly against the wall. How long would she have to steal for Gestas—the rest of her life? But she couldn’t let Cedron suffer for her sins. She was caught, like a mouse in the talons of a hawk.
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear into the darkness. Gestas was right; she didn’t have a choice. Not anymore.
THE TAP OF hobnailed sandals on stone had barely disturbed her shattered thoughts when Nissa felt strong, warm hands on her shoulders.
“Nissa?”
What was Longinus doing here? How long had she been huddled in the doorway? Her heart sped up, and she buried her face in her drawn-up knees.
He crouched next to her, his voice tinged with alarm. “What happened?” He pulled her arms from her knees and lifted her chin. His eyes searched her face, then dropped to the neck of her tunic. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword. “Who did this to you?”
Her blunted mind was unable to form a word. She slumped against the wall.
Longinus shook her gently. “Nissa. Who hurt you?”
She lowered her head. “I can’t.” It was a choked sound, like that of a wounded animal.
Longinus stared at her for a long minute. He muttered a curse and rubbed his hand over his face. He kicked the shards of the water jar away and curved one arm around her shoulders, the other under her legs.
She struggled, but not before he’d lifted her into his arms. His mouth was set in a firm line, like he had something to say but wasn’t saying it, and his blue eyes seemed sad. No helmet covered his fiery hair, and no cold metal armor separated her from his broad chest. She opened her mouth to protest but gave up when the street around her tilted and spun. She closed her eyes. Longinus wouldn’t hurt her. At least not while she kept her secret.
He tightened his grip, pulling her closer until her cheek lay against his soft tunic, smelling of lye and sandalwood. His steps were sure and strong, his chest firm, and the beat of his heart even and comforting on her cheek.
Is this what it feels like to have someone take care of you? To be safe?
His stride lulled her; his warmth seeped into her shaking limbs. For this moment, she wasn’t alone and abandoned. She was cared for, protected. She let out a long breath, one that she’d held for what seemed like eternity. Her body relaxed and curved into his chest. If only this moment—this solace—could last forever.
Too soon, the sun brightened behind her eyelids, and the aroma of roses told her she was home. Longinus shouldered open the gate and brought her inside. The fire smoldered, a few coals glowing dully under the cooking pot. Longinus set her on the bench near the fire.
As he stepped away, the bite of the cold wind replaced the warmth of his arms and snatched away the illusion of safety. The moment of peace was replaced by despair. Nissa buried her head in her hands.
A clay cup nudged her hands. Water. Tepid from the flask he carried at his side. She drank it. She raised her eyes from the almost-dead coals to his feet, spread wide, like he was planted in her courtyard. Then his sword hanging at his side. Her gaze stopped at his crossed arms. She couldn’t bear to look into his piercing eyes.
He would ask questions now, demand answers. What could she tell him?
Her mind was as empty as the cup in her hands. She had no lies left t
o give.
Chapter 20
LONGINUS PULLED A breath deep into his tight chest and let it out slowly.
He’d carve the man’s heart out. Squeeze his neck between his own hands and watch his face turn blue. Rip his arms from his body, slice him open from navel to throat. And not just the man who had cut her today. Every man who had laid a hand on her.
Something had happened when he’d held Nissa close and carried her through the streets. A moment when she’d stopped fighting him. She’d softened, her body curving against him. She’d nestled into his shoulder like a child, her soft breath brushing over him, and he’d felt something open inside him as solid and real as a key opening a lock.
Was that what it felt like to be needed? To be trusted?
For a moment, he’d been more than a soldier, more than a centurion. But the moment had ended when he’d put Nissa down beside the fire, and now he felt as bereft and weak as a lost lamb. And he didn’t know what to do next.
Blood soaked the neck of Nissa’s tunic. A spike of straw clung to her hair, and her clothes were stained and smelled like she’d been sleeping with the donkey. She cowered next to the glowing remains of the cooking fire, her arms wrapped around her chest, her eyes closed like she was waiting for a blow.
This was his fault—as much his fault as the men who visited the brothels. He’d known for weeks what Nissa was doing. He’d told himself to forget her. He, who knew better than most what she endured at the hands of men.
She probably thought he was just like the man who had hurt her. Was he any better? While he’d searched for the thieves and played tabulah with Stephen, she’d been selling herself to the scum of Jerusalem, maybe even his own men. His stomach lurched, threatening to bring up his breakfast. He should have stopped her.
He ducked though the low doorway of the house and scooped a jar of oil from the cluster of amphora in the corner. Nissa hadn’t moved when he reentered the courtyard. He knelt beside her and eased his hand under her chin.
Her eyes flew open. As dim as the coals at her feet, they met his for an instant before her thick lashes fluttered closed again.
The slice ran from the middle of her neck to her sharp collarbone—not deep, but it needed attention. He swiped his thumb over the lip of the jar and smoothed oil over the gash.
She jerked away from him. “I can do it.”
He clenched his jaw tight. Why did she have to fight him on everything? He clamped a hand on her shoulder and pulled her toward him. She flinched, and he remembered the crescent-shaped scar. A scar he’d given her.
He lightened his grip and gentled his voice. “You can’t even see it. Let me. I’ve done this before.” He’d dressed many wounds after battles. He’d seen lesser wounds fester, turn into fevers, and take the lives of men with ten times her strength. But the knife wound would be the least of Nissa’s worries if she went back to the brothel. And she wasn’t going back, that much he knew.
He corked the oil jar and rocked back on his heels. Where was Cedron? And how thick was the Jew that he didn’t know what his own sister was doing for him? He knew the man was naive, but how could Cedron believe that Nissa was supporting them on what she could earn at a Roman laundry?
Nissa leaned away from him, shrinking into a ball like she wanted to disappear.
His heart squeezed tight in his chest. He couldn’t leave her like this. He could give her money. Surely she would listen to reason after what happened today.
But since when had Nissa listened to reason? Especially from him. And Cedron would never accept charity from him. An impossible idea sparked in his mind. There was a way to keep her safe.
Don’t even think about it.
He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her to face him. “I know what you’ve been doing, Nissa.”
Her eyes flew open, and her body jerked like he’d stabbed her. Her face paled, and she struggled to rise. He put both hands on her shoulders. “Please, Nissa. I can help you.”
Confusion wrinkled her brow, but she wrenched away from him and stumbled to her feet. “Help me?” Her voice cracked, and she backed away, just a step from the smoking ashes of the fire pit. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, like she was being chased.
Longinus stood slowly, holding out his hand, palm up. “You were lucky, Nissa. Next time you might not be.” His eyes searched her panicked face. Surely she could see he was right. “Promise me you won’t go back there.”
Her brows came together. “Go where?”
He pressed his lips together. She didn’t want to admit it, even to him. But he wasn’t worthy to judge her. “You’ve never worked at the laundry, Nissa. I checked.”
Her face whitened.
“I know why you live here, how you’ve been getting by.” He swept a hand over the courtyard, the store of food, her clothes. “I know you’ve been working in the brothel.”
NISSA’S MOUTH FELL open, and heat rushed through her like flames through straw. The brothel? A choked laugh rose up her throat, bursting from her mouth in a hysterical chortle.
His brow wrinkled, and he blinked in confusion.
She covered her mouth with her hands. For a terrifying moment, she’d thought he knew her secret. But no, he didn’t know anything. He thought she’d been selling her body to the men of Jerusalem. The laughter dried up in her throat, replaced by a shame she didn’t own but couldn’t deny.
He thinks I’m a prostitute.
Anger sparked within her. He was as bad as Gilad, as bad as Gestas. They all wanted something. What would he want to keep his silence? She had nothing left to give.
He ran a hand over his red hair. “Listen, Nissa. I won’t tell Cedron.” He stretched out a hand to her. “Nissa, I have plenty of money.”
The spark of anger grew to a flame. She stepped back, away from him. He didn’t want money, but he wanted something. First Gilad, then Gestas, and now this centurion. “You are no better than the rest of them. You come here with your sword and—and—your . . . blue eyes. And you think you can—”
“Nissa. I can take care of you. No one will know about—”
Nissa jerked away, the movement sending a shard of pain through the gash on her neck. “Take care of me?” She knew just how he wanted to take care of her. And she’d thought he was different. “Until when? Until you tire of me?”
Longinus froze, his brows pulling together as color crept into his face. He shook his head. “No, Nissa. You don’t understand—”
She advanced on him. “Oh, I understand well enough. I may be plain, but I know how men think.” She pulled herself up to her full height, her chin jutting forward.
Longinus reached toward her. “Listen to me, Nissa.”
She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
He ignored her, both hands landing on her shoulders. “I’m giving you a choice. You don’t have to—”
“A choice?” She shrugged off his hands. “You think I have a choice?” Between Gilad, Gestas, and this centurion, she had no choice at all. She launched herself at him. Her fists battered at his chest, his freckled arms. “I don’t have a choice.”
Longinus didn’t flinch, didn’t protect himself.
She hit higher, her feeble blows landing on his shoulders. “I either keep—” She caught herself. Stealing, under the thumb of Gestas and blackmailed by Gilad. “Or become your mistress.” She hit higher, blows buffeting his face.
He ducked his head to avoid her flying hands. “Nissa, not my mistress.”
Not his mistress? What else could she be? She pounded on his chest. It wasn’t fair. He was too strong. They were all stronger than her.
“Nissa, stop. I’m not asking you to be my mistress.” He caught her flying hands in his. “I’m asking you to be my wife.”
She jerked back. His wife? The wife of a Roman centurion? Looking up into his eyes, she saw something in them . . . Was it hope? Or surprise at what he’d just said? The answer to all her problems stood in front of her, red hair in wil
d spikes, blue eyes guarded. Waiting. Cedron called him their enemy, but was he? What kind of man was willing to marry a woman like her? A woman he thought was a prostitute?
“Why would you want to marry me?”
He looked away, then dropped her hands and stepped back. “I know I’m older than you, but when I’ve finished my service . . .”
She folded her arms over her chest. He hadn’t answered her question.
“. . . I’ll have land. Just ten more years.” His gaze went to the smoking fire pit, her sandals, everywhere but her face.
She chewed on her lip and watched him until he finally looked at her.
“I can take care of you, Nissa. You never have to go back there.” He swallowed like he had a lump of dry bread in his throat.
He was right. He could take care of her. Marriage. Safety for her and Cedron. Gilad would have no claim against her. Gestas wouldn’t threaten her again, not as the wife of a Roman centurion. And with a centurion’s pay, they’d never want for food or shelter. Cedron would object—of course he would—but her father wouldn’t. A few pieces of silver would buy his blessing.
Take it. Say yes. The dark voice spoke so strongly she almost jumped.
She couldn’t think. Not with those blue eyes staring at her, not with the voice in her head clamoring to be heard.
Amit brayed from the lean-to.
Nissa stumbled to the corner of the house and scooped up a cracked water jar. “I need water . . . I need to think.” She rushed toward the gate.
Longinus stopped her with a hand on her elbow. “I’ll wait.”
Her throat closed, and she nodded, then slipped through the gate and into the busy midday street. She ran, the jar bumping against her side, all the way back to Siloam. She staggered up the steps, set the jar on the platform, and waded in.
Marry a Roman? The centurion who had grabbed her in the marketplace, who hunted her still? She ducked under. Cold silence enveloped her as the water closed over her head. He’s the answer to all my problems. No more stealing. No more fear.
She would be a good wife to him. He’d never have to know what she had been. She’d keep her secret. She’d marry the man who had saved her and Cedron. The man who was undaunted by her temper or sharp tongue. The man strong enough to protect her, but who’d never lifted a hand against her. A good man.
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