Abigail had no sooner gained her room than a knock sounded on the door, and she opened it again. The sight of Timothy did not make her smile. The doorkeeper was probably her least favorite of the slaves in this house. “Yes?”
Timothy made no attempt to look happy about being here. “That slave of the Visibullis house who came yesterday has returned. He is asking for you.”
“Andrew? I did not expect him so early.”
Timothy shrugged, obviously not concerned.
Abigail sighed and looked around her; most of the packing was done, with the exception of the last minute things, so she certainly would not mind getting an earlier start than planned. The sooner she got out of here, the better. “I shall go speak with him. Hopefully, he is here to say they are all ready, and he can help us get everything outside. Miriam, Samuel should be back from saying farewell to his friends soon, but if not, we will send Panther to fetch him once Phillip and I return. Just try to get everything else thrown together here.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Miriam picked up Benjamin and smiled.
Abigail pressed a kiss to her son’s round cheek and headed back into the hall, Phillip behind her. “I thought this day would never come. It seems I have been here forever.”
Phillip hummed. “It has been quite a while. And not an entirely pleasant while.”
Abigail breathed a laugh in agreement. She suspected there was a bounce in her step as she moved down the hall. And why not? The shadow was finally lifting; she could never forget all those she had lost in that brief stretch of time, but life was moving on. She would get to embrace Ester today, to introduce her to her grandson. They would take that son to the villa as the new master, legally and blessedly. In a few days, she would marry the man who captured her heart. She did not even attempt to keep the smile from her lips.
They neared the cubiculum where Andrew had been waiting the day before. Abigail’s pace increased with excitement, and Phillip made his match hers. No one was in sight as she neared, but he could easily be at a window or seated. She moved into the room with confidence, Phillip a step behind her.
She halted abruptly when she felt the many presences within, a second before she saw Caius lounging carelessly, a smug smile on his lips. Time seemed to freeze. She heard the shouts of the men as they seized Phillip. From the sound of it there were many of them, but she did not turn around to look. She could not have. At that same moment two men grabbed her by the arms, though she made no protest to warrant their tight grips.
Her gaze leveled on Caius. “What have you done?”
He did not so much as stand to dignify her. “What should have been done long ago. You are a slave, Abigail, and I am selling you as my son would do if he had any sense.”
Phillip roared behind her, and she had a feeling he was barely being restrained by those many men. “Peace, Phillip,” she said over her shoulder. “Fighting will only please him. It will give him an excuse to have you killed. Be calm, and you will best serve me.”
She saw Phillip still abruptly, though the men holding him down still looked wary.
Abigail turned her full attention on Caius again, trying to ignore the pain that shot through her arms. “I am not a slave.”
He sneered. “You are and always will be. No dresses, no jewels can change that.” He waved disdainfully at her attire, then turned his eyes on the men holding her. His words were in Latin. “Take her away, and see that no time is wasted in giving her to the men. My son will not fight to win back what is the gladiators’ fodder.”
Abigail felt her heart freeze, her throat constrict. Not the arenas. Surely he would not send her there. But he would. She saw it in his eyes. So in the same tongue she said hotly, “Titus will never forgive you for this, Caius, and he will fight. To him, I am not a slave. I am a woman worthy of love, and I will be his wife. But you–never again will he see you as his father.” In spite of the shock on his face, the men began to pull her away. She shifted her words back to Greek. “You have lost him! It is your fault, not mine, and sending me to arenas will not change that.”
Her eyes met Phillip’s as they dragged her by, and she prayed that he would understand the message she sent. He inclined his head as if he had read her thoughts entirely, otherwise not moving. She looked for the first time into the face of one of her captors. It was hard, battered, and had the distinct look of one who sharpened his edges to keep them as rough as possible. She would receive no mercy from him.
“Father Jehovah,” she breathed in Hebrew, letting her eyes slide closed as the men pulled her where they willed, “give them wisdom and strength in their reactions. Do not let this be the ending to the progress we have made.” Trembling overtook her, and from the depths of her being she cried out, “Protect your daughter, Jehovah!”
“Quiet!” One of the men punctuated his order with a hard shake. He pulled back his hand as if to strike her, but the other broke in quickly.