Free The Patrician by Joan Kayse Page A

left her little time to breathe much less plan an escape.
    She pressed her lips together tightly. Different master, different rules, in the end it didn’t matter; she was still a slave.
    It had all gone so wrong. The memory of the stranger ordering her death, of Coeus eagerly nodding his agreement, of two burly kitchen slaves dragging her into the courtyard still sent shudders to her core. Even now Bryna could feel the cold blade against her throat, ready to slice and drain her life’s blood.
    In the end, the only thing that saved her from death had been the reliability of Coeus’ greed. The stranger, thank the gods, had not waited to see the deed done. Coeus stopped his minions just in time and ordered her taken to the market to be sold for whatever paltry sum a barbarian might bring.
    And so she had found herself on the auction block—humiliated by the scrutiny of potential buyers with grimy hands fondling her bared breasts, purchased by the steward of a wealthy Roman visiting from Italia— desperate for help serving their entourage. She’d gained some satisfaction knowing she had indeed brought Coeus a paltry sum.
    Bryna took a deep breath, released it slowly. Finding her less than adept at serving—how many goblets of wine could one slave spill he’d bemoaned—she’d been sent to her new master’s rural estate. Her heart had nearly broken as she was put on a ship and brought across the sea. Away from Alexandria. Away from Bran.
    She took another steadying breath.  At least here she was outside instead of being locked in an airless room. It made life almost bearable. If only he would leave her alone.
    In the weeks since she had lied to the man at Coeus’ behest, she’d been plagued with dreams of the man who had asked about his stolen property. Nothing as vivid as the premonition the morning before he arrived—a hot flush spread up Bryna’s neck at that memory—but detailed enough that she had yet to sleep a full night through and slaves got little enough as it was. Lips curved into a mocking smile, he would hold her gaze and whisper in a deep voice that she should wait for him. A chill ran down her arms. 
    “Is that all you’ve done?”
    Bryna tensed as the stringent voice of the housekeeper brought her back to the sweltering courtyard. Shading her eyes, she looked up at the hooked nose profile of Eda, the vilicus ’ wife.
    In the short time she had been at the estate, she had come to loathe this woman, for Eda was cruel and calculating. The woman was quick to use the cane she carried with her and Bryna had more than enough bruises to prove it.
    Eda motioned to two young boys standing behind her. Dumbfounded, Bryna watched them plop another huge basket of raw grain next to the mill.
    “The master returns from his duties in Rome today. We expect many guests. There will be a great feast.” She grinned, one edge of her lip catching on a misshapen tooth. “And the master does love his bread.”
    Bryna dug her fingers into the coarse gray wool of her tunic, battling the urge to throw the grain in Eda’s face. She was tired, hot, and hungry. She swallowed past the raw dryness of her throat. No good would come from protesting, yet she couldn’t help sending Eda a glare from beneath her lashes.
    “Keep your heathen evil eye off me!” Eda shrieked grabbing a handful of her hair and yanking till Bryna was certain it had been pulled out by the roots. Snatching it away from the irate housekeeper’s grasp, she rubbed at her stinging scalp. The woman had eyes like a hawk. She muttered a curse beneath her breath.
    Eda’s face went pale with fear. “Wretched girl!” She put a foot to Bryna’s shoulder and pushed. Caught off guard, Bryna fell sideways, feeling the rough surface of the grindstone scratching her arm.
    “I told Baal he made a mistake buying you. Barbarian witch. I can see it in your eyes. No human has eyes like that, always watching, knowing, waiting.”
    Bryna dabbed at the scrape. The woman