The Patrician by Joan Kayse Page B

Leaning back against the wall, he gripped his stomach as the ship rolled again. God, his head hurt, much worse than when he argued with his uncle. He raised his hands and probed until he found a thick clot of blood behind his ear. It was dry and flaky to the touch, indicating more than a little time had passed since his attack. He could almost hear Damon pointing out that his hard head had finally proven useful.
    A rush of air escaped his lungs as the ship swayed again. Who was the bastard sailing this vessel? Only a fool would sail into this type of weather. A fool or someone too desperate to care.
    Jared held the chain tight, waited until the hold leveled out before feeling his way along the links to the wall. There he found the end attached securely to one of the hull’s ribs with not one, but two bolts. Whoever had dragged him down here meant for him to stay. Uttering a loud curse, he jerked at the chain, heard the heavy thud of iron knocking against damp wood. The one spot in the whole sodden mess that was solid.
    He rubbed his hands across his face. None of this made any sense. Kidnapping was not unheard of, even in Alexandria, and most victims were redeemed after the payment of ransom. But they were not usually taken away from the source of that ransom, and what monies he had left remained in Alexandria. He ruled out simple vagrants accosting him. They would have robbed him, killed him, or at the very least left him for dead.
    Robbery. Jared shifted his hands and touched his bare arm. His robe was gone, as were his belt, knife, pouch and boots. There was a large rent in the neck of his tunic. He felt a moment’s anxiety until he found his mother’s amulet, still hanging from his neck.
    The ship began to settle into a stabilized, rhythmic swaying. The fierce howling of the wind was abating and he could hear the crew on the deck, shouting their relief and thanking various deities for deliverance from a watery grave.
    “Ho, you on deck,” he shouted, his voice hoarse, “I demand to speak to the captain.” There was a pause in the noise above him followed by the sound of the sailors going on about their duties. He repeated his demand, first in Greek, then Aramaic, Latin and Persian. He even tried the few words he knew of the Gaul's tongue, but there was no response. All he had managed to do with his shouting was to make his already parched throat raw.
    Long moments passed before a loud, scraping of wood against wood echoed through the silence of the hold, bringing him fully alert. A hatch door opened in the low ceiling at the far end of the hold.
    Cool, salt air rushed in, filling his lungs with its pure, sweet freshness. Unfortunately, no appreciative change in illumination came with the door opening. Gripping the chain, he readied himself.
    A faint yellow sphere of light bobbed its way around the opening. Jared narrowed his eyes, just able to discern the  shape of a man climbing backwards down a makeshift ladder. The man jumped the last two steps and raised the oil lamp he carried. Jared’s head throbbed painfully at the sudden brightness. He raised his hands in an attempt to shield his eyes, croaking out, “I demand to speak to the captain of this ship.”
    The man regarded him with amusement, rubbing one filthy hand on the bottom of an already stained leather tunic. Jared measured his chances against his captor. Shorter by a head, but still sporting the hard muscles of a seaman, the man would have little advantage save one—he wasn’t chained to a wall. “I demand. . .”
    “I heard you the first time,” replied the man in crude Latin, setting the lantern on the floor. “What makes you think the captain would deign to speak to a slave?”
    Slave? A frisson of unease snaked up Jared’s back. He leveled the seaman with his most imperious glare. It was a look that never failed to glean the best price from his suppliers and sent trepidation through vendors bent on dishonesty. “Do you know who I