The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance (38 page)

“Stop!” Damon shouted as Theophilus sprinted out the narrow door. The drunken patrons shouted slurs along with encouragement as Damon gave chase.

The alley outside the taverna was dark, lit only by cloud-spattered moonlight and a single rush torch jammed in a crack of the wall marking the entrance to the business. Damon forced himself to stand still and listen. To his left, away from the torchlight he heard the slap of leather sandals.

Damon followed the noise, ducking down a short, connecting walkway, making a silent leap over a passed out drunkard, his foot slipping in a pile of something he’d rather not think about. Ahead there was a break between two buildings with the hem of Theophilus’ tattered cloak disappearing into the crevice.

Reaching the narrow gap, Damon saw him wriggling, trying to get through. He glanced around and noted another, wider passage running horizontally and out to the same, wider avenue. He raced

to intercept him.

Bursting out into the street, he hurried to the other opening—no Theophilus. Behind him he heard a curse and saw the back of his quarry’s cloak flapping out behind him. Damon took off after him. He was running for his life, too. A life with Julia and he’d be damned if he’d let a sewer rat steal it from him.

Damon could see Theophilus ahead and pushed himself to overtake him. The man’s fear must have given him the strength of ten gazelles because Damon had never had to run so fast to catch a target. He pumped his legs faster until he’d reached the corner Theophilus had turned down where it ended at a brick wall.

Damon bent over, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. Months in the patrician world had sapped his stamina. Raw anger dulled the pain that hitched in his side. He’d almost had him. Now that Theophilus knew he was being hunted, he’d only burrow deeper into his hole. It could take months for Damon to locate him, if ever.

He straightened, hands on his hips, contemplated his next move and froze. He tilted his head and heard it—a low throated moan from the shadows of the gutter. Damon crept toward the noise, squinted at a crumbled form lying face down in the gutter. Bending down on one knee, Damon rolled the man over. A large knife protruded from his quarry’s stomach, blood seeping out and spreading in an ever-widening circle on his filthy tunic. Damon scanned the area but saw no one. But someone had seen Theophilus, someone in service to Quintus Marcellus. Another problem had been solved for the Prefect.

Damon lifted the man by the shoulders, shook him until his eyes fluttered open. He was dying and Damon needed answers. “What crime is the Prefect committing?”

The man only moaned.

Damon forced himself not to shout, saying in a hiss, “What did you seek from Octavian Manulus?”

The man’s lips moved. Damon put his ear closer, barely heard the man’s words. “Ledgers, scrolls. Twice written.”

Theophilus took a deep, gurgling breath then went limp in Damon’s arms.

Damon eased the man to the ground. No man should be left in the street like a dog, even if he was one but there was no time to see him properly tended. He strode down the alley. He didn’t have the exact information he needed to thwart Quintus but it was a good solid lead. He possessed all the skills necessary to locate the scrolls and a limited time to use them.

A blinding pain shot through his head, rage and despair forming only one thought before the world went black.

Julia
.

*****

Julia stood beside her mother’s favorite assortment of flowers, her spine ramrod straight, her shoulders squared and her most regal expression fixed upon her face. She took comfort in the blooms that had given her mother such pleasure, a symbol of happier times. She needed to cling to those memories because she was now preparing for battle, a battle for her future. A battle for her love.

One of the kitchen boys had spotted Quintus Marcellus and a contingent of soldiers climbing the hill toward the
domus.
With Dorcas’ assistance she’d quickly dressed in her finest tunic and her
stola,
gathered at her waist with a girdle of beaten silver. She’d purposely chosen the traditional garment of a Roman matron lest Quintus forget she was a married woman.

Julia took a deep breath. Even though there were no true vows between she and Damon, to the very core of her soul she felt that they were joined and by a connection deeper and stronger than mere words.

He’d been gone for close to a week. No messages, no clue as to his whereabouts. If this had happened early on in her ruse, she would have been convinced that he’d deserted her but now?  Now she trusted him and knew he would come back. He had to, for if something happened to Damon, she would cease to exist.

She would do everything in her power to see him safe. If that meant facing Quintus alone, demanding he leave them in peace, threaten to take her concerns to the Emperor, then she would do so without the least hesitation.

A forceful pounding sounded from the front entry. Julia swallowed hard. Basil had insisted he remain at his post though she had sent the rest of the household into hiding in a small, deserted temple her great-grandfather had constructed behind the
domus
. Accessible only by a hidden door in the garden wall, buried deep behind an overgrowth of grass and bush it was the safest place.

Aunt Sophia had been blessedly subdued and Lares had been equally loud in his protests, calming only when she reminded him it was his duty as heir to protect the people of his household. Then she had done a completely sisterly thing, and kissed him on the forehead. Her heart had clenched as she watched him take control, walking with the confidence of a man.

Walking. As Damon had taught him to do.

The pounding continued. The soldiers had her worried and for the first time in days, she was glad Damon was not present. Away from the villa he was safe, and she could face anything knowing it. She heard Basil’s mumbled greeting.

“I would see the Lady Julia.”

Julia folded her hands at her waist, willing them not to tremble. Quintus’ voice was demanding, harsh, all pretense of civility stripped away. He sounded like the murderer he was.

Quintus strode into the room. His handsome visage had taken on a twisted, demented cast, his eyes so full of hatred that Julia took an involuntary step backward.

“Julia.”

Julia inclined her head. Her name on his lips sounded like the hiss of a snake.

“Prefect,” she answered with forced calm. “The hour is late.”

“It is indeed,” he replied.

A shiver of fear swept through her at the mocking tone of his voice.

“Where is your husband?” he asked, strolling around the patio as if he were master. Julia sent a nervous glance at the handful of soldiers from the urban cohorts crowding the entry.

Julia forced her voice to remain calm. “My husband is attending to some family business. If you would care to return in the morning, I’m sure he would find time to speak with you.”

Quintus stopped his pacing, folded his arms and bent toward her, a sneer curling his lip. “Truly? Do you think he would speak with me then?”

Though she schooled her expression into a cool mask, Julia’s thoughts were racing along with her heart. Why would Quintus come to her home in the dead of night, making inquires? Was he angry at the success of Damon at the races? He’d publicly acknowledged their marriage, multiple times with every social event they’d all attended. For Quintus to raise a protest now would put him in a bad light and the Prefect of Rome never allowed that.

Cold dread erupted in her belly. “Prefect,” she said, “leave my home at once.”

Quintus stepped back. “Why Julia, that is most inhospitable of you. I’d expect better from a woman of your stature. What would your father say?” He considered that a moment, before giving a short laugh. “What would he have said? If he were alive.”

Grief crashed over Julia and she had to grip the back of the nearby couch. Quintus seemed not to have noticed.

“Why don’t we ask your husband?”

Her gaze flew to the door where two more soldiers entered dragging a struggling Damon between them. Arms bound behind him, with a short length of chain connecting to his shackled feet making walking impossible, Damon was pushed to his knees at the entry of the garden. Julia’s heart seized when he raised his head and tried to smile at her but couldn’t, his lips too cut, his jaw too swollen.

She took a step toward him but was stopped by Quintus’ outstretched arm.

“Julia. I fear you have been the victim of a cruel hoax.” He stalked over to Damon, fisted a hand in his hair and jerked his head back. “This man is not a true Roman. He’s a slave, a lowly piece of vermin masquerading as a patrician.” He circled Damon, studying him as if he were an insect. “It took longer than I’d anticipated to discover the truth. But once my men discovered that old merchant and began making—” Quintus chuckled “—inquires, we discovered this dog’s true name.” He read from a rolled parchment handed to him by a soldier. “For sale, one eleven-year-old boy. Sound teeth, quick mind and hard worker. Qualities attested to by the seller, one Felix Primax.” A cruel smile curved his lips. “His own father.”

Damon sent the Prefect a hot glare before speaking to Julia. “Too bad you found out, goddess,” he said in a nonchalant tone. “It was one of my best schemes.”

Julia gasped when Quintus struck Damon with the back of his hand. Damon took the blow, spitting out a mouthful of blood within inches of Quintus’ foot. What was he saying? “He’s lying,” she said, holding Damon’s gaze, seeing the plea behind his flint-gray eyes and choosing to ignore it. He was trying to protect her and she refused to allow him to sacrifice himself. She shifted her gaze to Quintus. “He thinks to protect me when it was my idea to claim a marriage.”

“Really? And why would that be, Julia?”

She wanted to blurt out the truth, tell Quintus she thought him repulsive, cold hearted and contemptible. Her gaze flickered to Damon, a man she could trust her heart with, a man who she loved.

“I did not wish to be forced into a marriage with someone whom I did not respect, or have the least affection for.” She narrowed her gaze and bit out, “Someone like you who does not hold the smallest amount of honor.”

Quintus’ expression turned dark. “I suggest you consider the foolishness of your views.” He jerked his head at the soldiers who pulled Damon to his feet. “Three days, Julia. Your
husband
will be my guest until you decide to accept me as your spouse.”

“Do not do it, Julia,” Damon said, twisting and turning his head over his shoulder. “Do not debase yourself. I love you, goddess.”

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she rushed toward the door only to be blocked by Quintus who sneered.

“Three days.”

G
ods, he’d been a fool to declare his love.

Damon groaned as his feet slipped off the narrow block of stone his captors had placed him on. Arms stretched high above his head, chained to an iron bar, his battered body swung in the sour air of the prison chamber like a piece of meat in the butcher shop. His interrogators had thought it amusing to leave him perched like this while they took their supper, knowing he was in too weakened a condition to save himself from falling. Bastards.

He focused on the image of Julia that had kept him sane during the torture. For his part, he had no regrets saying it to her, no reservations at all about telling her how he felt, but not out loud. Not when it could be used as a weapon, a weapon he had handed to his enemy on a platter. Quintus would use it to full advantage to force Julia’s hand.

What an arrogant fool he was. He’d forgotten everything he’d ever learned about stealth and subterfuge and plowed headlong into a squad of Quintus’ men, totally ignoring the warning signs he was being followed. Exposed himself like a fledgling operator and played right into the Prefect’s hands.

Damon bit back a groan as the muscles in his arms began to burn, protesting their latest abuse. He was well into the third day of his incarceration in Quintus’ prison and was amazed he wasn’t yet permanently maimed or dead. The Prefect employed an elite group of torturers, men skilled in inflicting pain, and they had used most of their tactics on him. Just for the enjoyment of it—there was not one bit of information that they had tried to extract from him.

Lashings with a scourge, bound at the wrists and hung from a hook for hours, his muscles quivering, screaming for release. The worst had been when they’d laid him on a narrow block of wood, stretched his arms and legs with ropes to winches and stretched him to the point that his limbs had cracked. They’d locked him in that position and burned him with irons. He’d bit his lip until blood poured, determined not to scream but they had not been satisfied until he had, finally accomplishing the deed by rubbing salt into his scorched flesh.

None of it was as excruciating as his worry for Julia.

He clenched his jaw as his tormenters entered the chamber, laughing when they saw he had not been able to keep his footing. With a creak they lowered him to the ground. Damon’s knees would not hold him up. But they didn’t need to as two of the burliest of them dragged him across the chamber to a wooden post. Still on his knees, Damon’s arms were twisted behind the pole and chained.

From beneath half closed lids, he watched as they added coal to a brazier and began to lay an assortment of irons into the glowing embers. He closed his eyes. Gods, he didn’t know if he had enough strength left to endure it.

“How is our guest today?”

Damon raised his head and returned Quintus’ smirk with a heated glare. “Your skill as a host leaves much to be desired.”

Quintus’ lips curved into a cold smile. “I have questions for you, slave.”

Damon grimaced as his upper arms were pulled taut against the pole with leather strips to expose his torso for the coming abuse. “I thought you might. But I have no answers. I am, after all, only a slave.”

“Quite right. You are chattel. You exist only to serve your betters.” Quintus rolled one of the iron handles in the embers, pulled out a round one glowing red with heat.