The Grail King (26 page)

Marcus’s shoulders sagged. How could he refuse Rhiannon? She might not be his mother in truth, but her love and quiet strength had nurtured the man he was.

He covered her hand with his. “I will go. For you. But I warn you, we’ve not enough coin in the strongbox.”

“I can help,” Clara said. Shakily, she drew the strap of her satchel over her head.

Marcus took the bag, avoiding her gaze. His eyes widened when he saw its contents—not coin, but a tangle of gold and jewels, more than he’d ever seen in one place.

“Is it enough?” Clara asked anxiously.

“I should think so,” Marcus said shortly. It was a small fortune.

He saddled his horse and set out for the Gracchus villa. A scant hour later, he returned home alone. Clara rushed to the door as he entered.

“I was too late,” he told her. “The slavers have already taken him to the city.”

Marcus was no stranger to the slave market. On the contrary, he was a regular customer. As a rule, his acquisitions were surly or terrified when purchased. Their emotions quickly shifted to disbelief, wariness, or gratitude when Marcus spoke the public words of manumission.

He wondered how Owein would react to freedom.

He approached the entrance to the pens, trying not to fidget with his toga. He hated the thing. A cold breeze whipped up his bare legs, making him wish for his
braccas.
But in the arena, he needed to stand with the other patricians. Looking the part aided his cause.

He’d never purchased a strong male in his prime; his family’s precarious finances didn’t permit such an extravagance. Even if they had, Marcus preferred to liberate the most desperate of the human chattel offered for sale. The women. The old. The babes.

With a regal nod, he slipped a copper
dupondius
to the slave guarding the carts. It was expected a serious buyer would want to inspect the day’s offerings and take note of the lot in which certain slaves would be offered. Marcus would as soon have passed over this part of the proceedings. His stomach churned as he started down the first row of carts, searching for Owein.

The place stank. Some carts housed up to five or six unwashed bodies, huddled together in cold and despair on ill-smelling straw. Each cart contained two buckets, one for water, the other for sanitary needs. Often, it was impossible to distinguish between the two.

Misery permeated the air. Soft moans and loud sobs, the sniffling of the young ones and the prayers of the old. Almost all the captives were Celts. Some had been brought from the north, where the army skirmished along Hadrian’s half-built Great Wall. Others had been caught in crime and sentenced to slavery. A few had sold themselves to satisfy their debts.

Striding ahead with grim purpose, Marcus located the aisle where the strong men were penned like beasts awaiting the games. He recognized his stepmother’s brother immediately. The wild red-haired Celt was not the youth Marcus remembered, but his resemblance to Rhiannon was clear enough to Marcus’s eye. He sprawled on the mucky floor of his cart, both arms raised, his wrists shackled to the sturdy oak bars over his head. His ankles were bound as well, to either side of the barred door. He wore only tattered, filthy
braccas.
Cuts and bruises covered his torso and face. One eyebrow was cut; blood dripped in a jagged line down the side of his face.

His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Marcus took advantage of the reprieve to note the lot number painted on a wooden sign leaning against the cart’s wheel. Below the number was a description of the merchandise:
Male Celt. Outlaw. Free of disease. Strong back, good teeth.
There was more, but Marcus didn’t have the stomach to read it.

“Owein.”

The Druid opened his eyes but didn’t otherwise move a muscle. The blue of his irises was intense, the exact color of
Breena’s, Marcus realized with a start. But though Marcus and Breena had quarreled often enough, his sister’s clear gaze had never held the pure hatred that Owein’s did.

He resisted an urge to step back. He would not cower before this nightmare from his youth. He let a challenge show in his eyes.

Several heartbeats passed before recognition joined the animosity in Owein’s expression. “Ye are Lucius Aquila’s son,” he said. His Latin was heavily accented.

“Yes.” Though Marcus might have answered in Celtic, he did not.

“Ye have the look of him.”

“I know.” Stepping closer, Marcus catalogued Owein’s injuries with the eye of a man whose stepmother was a healer. The Druid’s limbs, at least, appeared to be sound. His cuts were superficial, though the one on his head had bled profusely. The faint imprint of a boot on his torso indicated bruised ribs at the least.

“Can you stand?” Marcus asked.

The question was met with a snort. “A fine joke, Roman.”

“I mean, if your bonds were removed,” Marcus snapped.

Owein regarded him steadily. “Why are ye here?”

“Surely you can guess. I am here at Rhiannon’s request. And Clara’s,” he added after a pause.

An uncertain emotion flickered in Owein’s eyes. “She is safe?”

“Yes. She waits with my stepmother and sister at the entrance to the arena.”

Owein struggled, as if to rise, though such a gesture was futile. “What kind of man are ye to allow women near such a place?”

Marcus gave a snort. “Do you think I could have persuaded them to remain at the farm? They would have followed me even into the pens, if the guard had allowed it.” He exhaled. “They’ll not rest until I see you out of this place.”

Owein’s expression went blank. “Ye mean to buy me?”

“If your price isn’t too high.” It was a low blow, but Marcus found he couldn’t resist delivering it.

Owein turned his head and spat. “Save your money, Roman. I’d sooner take a chance at the games than bow to ye as my master.”

Marcus gritted his teeth. “I’ve no wish to be your master. Once I buy you, you’ll be free.”

Three men came to remove Owein from his cart.

He almost laughed at that. They treated him as if he were a bear, or a wildcat. They bound his arms behind him and stripped his
braccas
from his legs, leaving him naked in the chill air. They linked his ankles with a second rope.

When he moved forward, it was at a shuffle. One of the men picked up a placard leaning against the cart bearing Owein’s description. A length of rope was attached; he looped it over Owein’s head, positioning the sign on his chest.

Each slave for sale was similarly identified. The procession traversed the forum market and disappeared into the arena. Owein had been sold once before. But that had been in a small military camp, and the crowd had not been so large, nor so populated by enthusiastic civilians. Today Clara was in the throng. As were Rhiannon and her daughter. Owein tasted bile. Whatever he’d endured on that dark day long ago, this was far, far worse.

A man walked the row of slaves, flicking his whip, seemingly at random, clearly enjoying the encouraging shouts from the crowd. The lash fell across Owein’s back. He arched in shock, but didn’t cry out. He would not give his tormentor, nor the spectators, that satisfaction.

Fate drew him inexorably toward the arched portal leading to the arena. Clara was near. He could feel her as a soft flutter at the edges of his awareness. He doubted if she was conscious of him, for he’d locked the barrier of his mind against her as securely as the slaver’s lackeys had bound his wrists and ankles. He would not allow her to enter his mind again.

The guard gave another flick of the whip. This time the lash caught Owein’s hip. He sucked in a breath, stifling fury.

At the entrance to the arena, the sign around his neck was replaced by a rope. The knot pulled tight as a handler jerked the leash. Owein recognized the man as Calidius’s assistant, the one he’d tried to kill the night before. He held a slaver’s flagellum, its multiple leather thongs knotted with sharp bits of metal. Owein stared at the instrument of torture, remembering. Sweat broke out on his brow.

Calidius’s man hauled him toward the center of the arena, urging him forward with a lick of the lash. The crowd parted. Owein soon found himself shoved into a circle and prodded toward the stone block in the center. The patrons buzzed, crowding closer.

Calidius, flanked by a guard, stood at a podium nearby. The slave handler presented him with Owein’s sign. Calidius made a show of perusing it.

“The next offering is a fine one,” he pronounced.

“Looks like a wild beast!” cried a voice from the crowd.

“Look at that cock!” another said.

“He’s so filthy, you can hardly see it!”

“Will you bathe him first, at least, Calidius?”

Though he knew it was fruitless, Owein struggled with his bonds, humiliation burning his throat. The bidders jeered, surging as close as the guards allowed. Those nearest were all men; behind, in the stands, the more idle spectators were of both sexes, though the women seemed only to be allowed in the higher levels.

For that, at least, Owein was thankful. The thought of Clara witnessing his shame at close quarters nauseated him. It was bad enough to know she was here, watching.

The whip licked between Owein’s shoulder blades, forcing him to climb onto the auction stone. The tethers on his ankles made the maneuver difficult. He lifted his chin and fixed his gaze on the rim of blue sky that ringed the top level of the amphitheatre.

Calidius cleared his throat and read from the placard. “Lot fifty-four. Male Celt. Outlaw. Free of disease. Strong back, good teeth. Recommended for heavy labor or training in gladiatorial combat.”

“But who will tame him for me?” someone called out. A laugh rippled through the crowd.

“A firm hand with the whip is all that’s needed,” Calidius professed. As if to punctuate this sentiment, his assistant applied the flagellum to Owein’s shoulders. Owein hissed in pain. He lurched forward, nearly falling from the stone.

“See what I mean?” Calidius declared. “The bid opens at twelve gold
aurei.
”

“That’s damn high,” a portly man grumbled. Nevertheless, he raised his hand.

“Many thanks, Baldus. This one would be a fine addition to your gladiators, and would certainly draw a crowd to the arena. But what of the rest of you? I have twelve
aurei.
Do I hear fourteen?” A second bidder shouted his assent and the auction began in earnest, with several more men entering the fray.

None of them was Marcus Aquila.

Surely the blacksmith was present. Owein scanned the crowd, hating how his stomach soured at the thought that his enemy’s son might have abandoned him. When he finally spied Marcus, standing within a knot of men on the far side of Calidius, his relief was acute. As was his shame.

Marcus was silent, seemingly intent on the bidding, though he made no offer himself. One by one, men dropped out, until only two bidders remained. The one called Baldus, who sought fodder for the games, and another, Flavius, a stout man with a booming voice. Marcus’s brows drew together as they sparred, driving Owein’s price higher.

Finally, Flavius shook his bald head. “Twenty-six gold
aurei!
Far too rich for my blood.”

Calidius looked at Baldus. “Baldus holds at twenty-six, then. If there are no more—”

Marcus Aquila’s voice rang out. “Twenty-seven.”

Calidius turned in surprise. “Marcus Aquila? You wish to enter the bid at this late hour?”

Marcus inclined his head.

Baldus cursed. “The idiot blacksmith will free the brute, as he always does. Where’s the sense in that? Aquila should be barred from the auctions.”

“What I do with my property is surely no consideration of yours,” Marcus replied coldly.

Baldus shot Marcus a look laced with contempt. He turned to the auctioneer. “Thirty-five
aurei.
”

The crowd gasped. Owein’s gaze snapped to Marcus. The blacksmith’s frown had deepened. Had the bid exceeded the contents of his purse?

Marcus’s jaw set. “Thirty-six.”

Baldus’s eyes narrowed. “Thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-nine.”

“Forty.”

Marcus’s jaw looked as though it would snap. A deep inhale filled his chest.

“Fifty,” he declared.

Baldus let out a bark. “Fifty aurei? For
that?
” He threw back his head and laughed, his gut jiggling heartily. “Can you believe it? Why, it’s coin down the sewer!” He nodded to Calidius. “Let Aquila have the beast, with my blessing.”

“Done,” announced Calidius quickly. He looked like a man who’d stumbled across a gold mine. “Payment is due before possession,” he told Marcus.

Marcus stepped to the podium. Opening a large leather satchel, he emptied the contents on its surface. Not only coin, but a pile of gold, silver, and gems.

Clara’s
jewelry.

“What’s this?” Calidius said. “You know I accept only coin.”

“The items here are worth more than fifty
aurei.
”

“I cannot be sure of that. And in any case, I will have the trouble of pricing and selling the pieces.” He shook his head. “If you can’t produce coin, I’ll have to sell the brute to Baldus.”

“No,” Marcus said quickly. “I want him.”

His hand hesitated only a scant moment before dropping to the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his belt. The blade slid smoothly from its sheath. Owein could see it was a stunning weapon, with intricate tracery and a tapered point. The hilt and pommel were inlaid with silver.

Calidius’s guard reacted swiftly, drawing his sword and angling the tip toward Marcus’s neck. “Drop your weapon.”

Marcus met the guard’s gaze squarely, making no move to obey.
By the Horned God!
Surely Lucius Aquila’s son wasn’t foolish enough to attack a slaver at auction? He would be dead in an instant.

Marcus flipped the dagger and offered it, hilt-first, to Calidius. “I trust this weapon is sufficient to complete the transaction.”

Calidius’s brows rose. He took hold of the weapon, his greed barely concealed. “Of your own make?”

“Of course.” Marcus’s voice sounded strained. “It’s worth at least twenty-five
aurei.
Added to the coin and jewelry, there is more than enough value to purchase this slave.”