Free Shades of Surrender by Lynne Gentry

1
    I NSISTENT POUNDING RATTLED THE warped door of the rug shop. Ruth woke with a start and sat straight up on the woven reed mat she and her mother shared. Heart hammering in her chest, she slowly reached for the large stick she kept handy.
    Moving to the slums of Carthage had been an adjustment, one she’d not yet fully made. Even with the added iron bolt and their only stool propped against the door, the disconcerting noises of supply carts rumbling down the narrow streets, jeering men seeking the comfort of prostitutes, and the continual marital conflict from the apartment above the store kept her nerves on high alert.
    The pounding grew louder. Clutching her weapon, she rose and peered through the broken window slats.
    “Not him,” she muttered.
    Sunlight glinted off the purple draperies of the litter waiting on the cobblestone street. Her eyes darted to the incomplete tapestry on her loom. Cyprianus Thascius had been sent to fetch the weaving her father had promised they would deliver months ago.
    “Give me a minute, will you?” She quickly plaited her hair into a thick, golden braid. The knocks grew louder. “I said I’m coming.”
    Ruth hurried to the door, slid the bolt, and peeked around the frame. “My lord, we’re not open—”
    Cyprian pushed against the door. Sunlight ushered in the confident son of the most powerful senator in Carthage. “I’ve come for the tapestry.” His white toga hung in crisp folds from his bronzed shoulder. The expensive frankincense nard that made his skin glisten clashed with the earthy scents of the low-rent district tanning shops and bakeries. His eyes raked the room, then landed squarely upon her loom. “When will my father’s atrium boast the new tapestry your shop promised?”
    Ruth hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “My father’s word was his stock in trade. I am doing my best to keep his obligations, my lord.” Laying her long list of excuses before this blue-eyed patrician who looked straight through her as if she were no more than a cup of water would change nothing. His kind was used to having what they wanted, when they wanted.
    “My father was gracious to grant you extra time after your father’s sudden passing, but he has reached the limit of his mercy.” Cyprian strode to the loom and inspected her work. Then he turned and looked down his perfectly formed patrician nose, acting as if he were not merely an eighteen-year-old boy but a man who had already assumed his father’s seat in the Senate. Which would not be happening until he was at least thirty, if everything in his life turned out as he no doubt planned.
    She wanted to scream, A lot could happen in twelve years! A lot could happen in the blink of an eye.
    Cyprian cleared his throat and waited for the return of her full attention. “You give me no choice, weaver girl. Three days and I’ll come to collect either my father’s tapestry or the large advance we paid months ago.” In a swirl of white and purple, he exited.
    Legs trembling, Ruth went to the door and watched the golden litter disappear down the road. Three days? What was she going to do? She had neither a finished product nor the generous deposit her patronus had paid . She would be stoned or taken to the arena if Cyprian reported to his father that the weaver’s daughter had failed to honor their contract.
    A flash of brown drew Ruth’s attention to a dog lurking in the shadows. Cyprian’s brash arrival must have scared off the mutt, who’d taken to spending his nights on her threshold. She dug the crusty piece of bread from her pocket that she’d been saving for her breakfast and held it out. “Are you going to bite my hand off, too?”
    He bared his teeth with a low growl. She tossed him the bread. He gulped it down, waited to see if there was more, then scampered off. Strays and scraps were the ways of her life now, and the sooner she accepted it, the better.
    She flipped the wooden CLOSED sign to OPEN and placed one