Avenging Angels (Bad Times Book 3)

said with a viselike grip on his right ear lobe.
So he told her the truth. The Tauber Tube and traveling back through time to prehistoric Nevada and the ancient Aegean and being hunted by the Russian mafiya some of the time and a mysterious multi-billionaire all of the time and how he and a bunch of ex-Army buddies made a fortune by finding treasure in locations they found on their visits to the past.
And the craziest part? She believed him.

5
Caesarea Provincial, Capital of Judea, AD 16
It was beastly hot despite every effort to make it otherwise.
For prefect Valerius Gratus, no effort was made at all. He left that to the slave boys who populated his coastal palace. And there were many of them, and all had their function.
He reclined naked on a marble couch while slaves misted him with water from a clever device that sent liquid under pressure to a network of brass hoses positioned above him. Slaves worked a kind of bellows that sent the water through pipes to exit through pin-sized spicules to create a cooling vapor that descended upon him like the lightest rain. The chilling effect was aided by more boys working broad linen fans to fashion a wind to accompany the artificial drizzle.
And still Gratus sweated like a racehorse. He lay in a pool of his own effluvia that smelled like soup from the garlic-laced meal he’d eaten at last night’s feasting. This damnable place felt as though it were shrinking around him in a cloying and unwelcome embrace. The office of prefect was given him as a boon by edict of Tiberius himself. But Gratus was left to wonder what he had done to deserve such a slight as to be given the task of governing a sweltering land of swamps, sand, pestilence, and Jews. And its governance was not entirely under his aegis as he answered to the legate of Syria for all but the smallest decisions.
The single consolation of this unenviable office was that he was mostly left alone in his post. There was enough graft to more than satisfy his greed and enough pretty boys to satisfy his other needs. The boys were cheaper here than in Rome or Gaul and, while he still found Greeks to be the most beautiful, he appreciated Arab youths for their docile compliance to his every whim. Gratus raked off enough from taxes and tariffs and straight bribes to populate his home with a seraglio of young flesh.
He turned his head to regard through sleepy eyes the three boys working the fans. They were lean, dark, and free of the ugly muscle tone and body hair that would signal coming into manhood. Diminutive bronze gods they were, with sloe eyes and clever hands. Despite the crushing heat, he felt himself becoming aroused and, having made his choice of an Arab lad, began to rise from his couch.
Gratus was motioning for the selected boy to lower the fan and come closer when Ravilla, his troublesome and annoying attendant, entered the open courtyard of the villa. Ravilla was assigned as his lictor and provided legal counsel that the prefect seldom heeded. The prefect suspected that Ravilla reported to the legate in Antioch.
“Honorable Prefect, you have a visitor,” Ravilla said with the disapproving sneer that was a permanent fixture to his features.
“Tell them I am occupied with the business of the empire,” Gratus grumbled.
“They insist they have an appointment,” Ravilla insisted.
“My calendar is clear, lictor. Tell them to come another day.” Gratus was standing now and taking the boy’s hand in his. The boy looked up at him, smiling shyly. The smile the prefect returned was of a predatory nature.
“He brings gifts,” Ravilla said.
Gratus dropped the boy’s hand and whirled in fury.
“Why did you not say so as you entered, you troublesome excrescence?” Gratus roared. “See that he is attended to in my offices while I dress!”
Gratus stormed for his private chamber alone. He spared one remorseful glance back to the smiling Arab lad and that promising mouth. The business of the empire took precedence.
“And with what business do you petition the prefect?” Gratus proclaimed as he entered his official greeting room with its racks of unread scrolls and a pedestal holding up a bust of Emperor Tiberius that was as inaccurate as it was flattering. The black marble walls, high lapis ceiling, and fine fixtures of brass and ivory were meant to intimidate visitors and usually did.
This visitor was clearly not impressed. He stood before Gratus’s enormous malachite table, dressed in an indigo robe of silk-trimmed linen, looking impatient but attempting to conceal it beneath a veneer of boredom.
“You may call me Sutra Vari,” the man said with a nonchalant air. “I come from the east across the harena maris and many ranges of mountains.”
The man’s Latin was oddly accented but precise. He spoke it with no hesitation, but there remained a sense of the rote in his tone. And that was not all that was odd about him. He was tall for a foreigner from these climes. His face was close-shaven and a crown of snow-white hair atop his head. It appeared to be even whiter in comparison to his mahogany-colored skin. His features were fine, even patrician, with a thin nose well-set between black eyes. His most remarkable feature was his teeth. They were even and straight, and as white as virgin marble. Gratus had to wrench his eyes away from betraying his fascination. But he’d never seen such perfection in teeth except perhaps on a prize chariot horse.
“Are you a man of position in your land?” Gratus asked while taking a seat in his own chair and gesturing for the visitor to do the same. The man did not take the invitation and remained standing.
“I am not, honorable Prefect. I am a man of considerable resources, however.”
“And what is your business in Caesarea, if I might be so bold as to inquire? And what result do you seek from this audience with