Free The Patrician by Joan Kayse Page B

was a rambling, superstitious fool.
    “When the master returns, I will see that Baal speaks to him about selling you.” Eda paused, then her eyes lit with pleasure. “Yes, to the brothels in Ostia. You’d learn your place there, soon enough. That’s where you belong, chained in the stalls waiting for customers to plow themselves between your worthless legs. Then you’d have no time to cast your witch’s spells.” She sent her a withering glare then ordered, “Get back to work.” The housekeeper stalked toward the kitchen, sending slaves, children and small dogs scurrying from her path and her attention.
    Bryna swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. Stupid woman. Her devoted husband had already done the deed.
    Well in truth, he’d not completed the act though the degradation, humiliation and terror of the near rape had been enough. Dragged to a little used stable, bound into a position of submission with her legs spread wide, a gag in her mouth she’d had to endure the bastard pinching her in places that drew more pain then she could have imagined before he’d raised his tunic, his member jutting out and fallen on her like a rutting boar. Eyes squeezed shut, she braced herself for the pain.
    There had been none. Baal’s cock had gone soft before he could breach her. Her relief had been short lived as he’d taken his own failing out on her with more pain. She had savored each blow.
    He’d left on their master’s business not long after and under the watchful eye of Eda, he’d left her alone. With a long sigh, she repositioned, grasped the smooth, wooden handle of the mill and began to turn the stone like a mad woman, every bit of the anger and hatred she felt for Eda and her Roman captors making quick work of the rough husks.
    When the muscles in her arms began to cramp, she released her hold and stared at the grindstone as it slowed to a stop. She simply could not continue on like this. Servility was not in her temperament and no amount of abuse was going to put it there.
    Prideful and stubborn, her mother used to call her. A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. There was no arguing that, for those same traits were probably going to see her dead at the hands of her master.
    Unless she found a way to escape.
    This one, tiny scrap of hope had kept her from sinking into madness. Once, she had almost succeeded, had gotten as far as the outer street when one of Coeus’ whores saw her and sounded the alarm. It was then that the dismal room in the crumbling tavern had become her prison.
    But this time was different. This estate was vast, requiring many slaves to keep see to the smooth running of the household. It would be a simple matter to get lost among the numbers, slip away and what? Evade capture, find a ship, sail to Alexandria to find a brother a year lost to her? 
    Fool , a voice in her head scoffed. He’s dead or wishes he was. A shiver went through Bryna. He’s a slave. Like you.
    Her heart constricted at the thread of truth within the words.
    Bryna shook the terrifying thought from her mind. Of course Bran was still alive. Her spirit felt it, knew it, despite the dulling of her sight since leaving Egypt. She simply would not accept any other alternative
    She gripped the mill’s handle No. She would not give into it. The despair, the hopelessness. For twelve long months she’d stood by her vow to escape. To go home. She spun the grindstone faster, this time fueled with determination.
    After all, it was her fault that he had been captured.
    A pair of golden eyes, filled with accusation, flashed into her mind. Hands trembling, she tossed another handful of flour into the basket, tried to ignore the chill that settled in her bones. The stranger’s fate had also been her fault.
    The chill deepened. What had her lie cost the man, she wondered as the grindstone whirled beneath her hands. Again, she forced the worry from her mind. She couldn’t allow herself to even think about it. No, she