Free The Grail King by Joy Nash Page B

were in such good repair that they might have been erected yesterday rather than fifty years earlier. Suddenly, Marcus regretted not changing his sooty clothes.
    They approached Gracchus’s residence, an impressive two-story house located in the center of the fortress. Marcus had barely rapped at the door when it swung open. An elderly porter wearing an expression of disdain took one look at the ragged pair on his doorstep and directed them to the servants’ entrance.
    Rhys chuckled. “ ’Tis true enough, Marcus, ye could use a visit to the baths.”
    “As if you smelled like a rose,” Marcus grumbled.
    They followed an alley to the rear of the building. A kitchen slave directed them to an unroofed yard off the central court. Rows of amphorae, the rounded clay shipping containers favored for oil and wine, bordered one side of the space. In an opposite corner, freshly washed linen grew stiff in the cold air.
    A portly Roman with shining white hair and an equally shining white tunic appeared. Marcus knew the man to be Gracchus’s steward.
    “How fares the commander?” Marcus asked.
    The man nodded. “Of course, blacksmith.”
    Belatedly, Marcus remembered that the elderly steward was all but deaf. He repeated the question more loudly.
    The steward’s expression sobered. “Not well. The commander clings to life, but I fear it won’t be long before he stands on the banks of the Styx.”
    “And his daughter? How is she?”
    The question seemed to frighten the man. His gaze dropped to the floor. “As well as can be expected.”
    Marcus cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.” He lifted the wrapped sword. “Tribune Valgus is expecting this delivery.”
    “He requests you await him in the main courtyard. He wishes to inspect the sword before extending payment.”
    “As the Tribune wishes,” Marcus said. In an undertone, he added to Rhys, “Valgus had better part with the full amount.”
    “Don’t count on it,” Rhys murmured back to him as they followed the steward out of the work yard. “Gossip has it that he’s in arrears all over town.”
    An interminable wait ensued. Female voices drifted from the kitchen. Marcus cocked his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of Clara on the upper-story balcony, but to no avail.
    Valgus strode into the yard. Though only two years older than Marcus, the tribune already sported the thickened look of a man past thirty. He wore his haughty air with considerable pride. Many considered him a fine-looking man, and Marcus supposed he might have agreed, if it hadn’t been for Valgus’s eyes. Small and black, they had the unsettling habit of never resting in one place.
    Marcus stepped forward. Forgoing a formal bow, he simply unfolded the oiled cloth and presented his sword.
    Valgus accepted the blade, sliding it from its scabbard and testing the edge as Rhys had done. It was perhaps the finest
gladius
Marcus had ever made—with it, he’d hoped to gain Gracchus’s favor, but that had been before Clara’s betrothal. Now all he wished for was payment.
    The tribune’s expression betrayed nothing as he slashed a wide arc with the gleaming weapon. “It will do, I suppose.”
    The bastard had likely never held a finer sword. Marcus bit back a retort as Valgus flicked a finger toward the steward. The man stepped forward and placed a pouch in Marcus’s hand.
    Marcus made a quick count of the coins inside. “Nine
aurei?
This is but half the agreed price.”
    “It’s more than the weapon is worth. Gracchus was far too generous in accepting your price.”
    “
I
will not accept this payment.”
    “You’ll not have a
denarius
more.”
    “I’ll take the sword back, then.”
    Valgus raised the tip of the weapon just enough to be threatening. “I invite you to try.”
    Marcus fingered the hilt of the throwing dagger at his belt. Rhys caught his eye, his expression clearly indicating caution. Valgus might be a pampered senator’s son, with more conceit than true military experience, but