Barbarian's Soul (17 page)

Adria grit her teeth against the derision in his voice.

“A place of vagrants, murderers...”

“Thieves?” she added dryly, dipping a crude wooden spoon into a bowl of cooked grain.

“Especially thieves,” Bran replied, taking another bite.

Adria shot Bran a glare which he ignored. Menw, however, had not, though she couldn’t say she appreciated the humor in his eyes.

“Rome is not his home,” continued Bran. “He belongs here.”

“The boy has never known a home,” replied Menw.

If possible, Bran’s expression darkened further with his servant’s words. Was anger the only emotion he was capable of?

Menw held up a placating hand. “Bran. You cannot change the past.”

Adria frowned. Surely, when the children’s mother had lived, there had been a home. A familiar longing stirred in her chest. She had had a home once, a loving one with parents who’d cherished their only child. Life would have been so much different had they lived. She’d have no knowledge of the seamy world of the streets, nor the skills to survive them. She looked at Bran from beneath her lashes. And without them she’d not be the prisoner of this man.

Bran made a disgruntled noise then rose from the table. “When he returns, send him to me. The pair of you,” he added, brushing his gaze over the children on either side of her. “Obey your nursemaid.”

Obey the nursemaid. A fine statement if one knew what that entailed. Adria looked expectantly to Menw but that enigmatic smile of his offered no suggestions. A rising panic in her chest brought her off the bench.

Bran drained his cup. “Is there a problem, thief?”

Oh, there most certainly was a problem and it was standing before her, emerald eyes holding her gaze, daring her to speak and promising dire consequences if she did. Adria glanced at the children’s faces, one petulant, the other innocent, both edged with anxiety. They reminded her of little birds, always on the edge, ready to take flight. Returning Bran’s look, she shook her head, fuming at the slight smile of triumph that curved his lips as he stalked out the doorway.

“Why does he always leave?” asked Cyma softly.

“He leaves because you whine like a girl,” answered Julian, finishing his third slice of bread.

Cyma narrowed her eyes. “I am a girl!”

A mischievous half-smile curved Julian’s mouth. “No, you’re a Philistine who is a lackwit in the arena.”

Cyma’s eyes narrowed. “I am not a Pill-istine!”

“Yes, you are.” He brandished his wooden sword. “And I will defeat you.”

Adria blocked the weapon, wincing as it hit her forearm. Julian was undeterred. Jumping up from the bench he began to chase Cyma around the table laughing even as she let out an unholy wail.

Obey the nursemaid.

Gods.

***

The afternoon promised to be as hot, stifling and oppressive as the morning.

Adria paced along the edge of the small terrace of the
domus
hoping for a stray breeze. If she were free she wouldn’t be trapped in a house but would have found her way to the Palatine where the buildings were not crowded together and one could actually breathe. She’d have been in the shadows of course. Patricians were never keen on allowing plebians access to privileges such as fresh air.

She sent a quick glance to her charges who sat cross-legged in the shade of a small overhang, watching her. Julian with his ever present sword and Cyma with her kitten asleep in her lap. She’d never known children who could stare for such a long period. A diabolical plot, she decided, designed to drive her mad.

Adria may not be well versed in their ways, but she did know it was not natural for children the age of Cyma and Julian to be so reserved, a condition completely opposite from their morning scuffle. Then she’d had to physically wrestle them apart when the Pill-istine had turned with the ferociousness of a lioness and tried to bite her brother’s finger off.

Their silent perusal had begun when Menw had left to go to the market—a bit too eagerly, she’d thought, from the look of relief on his face. Her own excitement at the perfect opportunity to flee had been dashed by his reminder that Bran was close by—should she have need of him. Adria snorted. She needed no one, least of all Bran.

You felt safe in his arms.

Adria brushed the thought away but it slipped back, unbidden. Freed from the throes of the nightmare she’d denied having, for one, exquisite moment she’d felt protected. A shiver of revulsion slid down her spine at the memory of that horror, Tiege laughing manically as she was led around by a leash, naked as Parius’ wife. She scanned the walls surrounding the courtyard and tried to convince herself that they would hold against a master thief bent on revenge.

Adria blew out a breath. In a way she did have need of the surly man. This
domus
was a fair distance from the master thief’s territory and, she swallowed, her home. It would take a period of time for Tiege to forget about her and his humiliation. She crossed her arms. What a foolish notion. Tiege would never forget.

Still, staying with Bran and his family would give her time to decide the best course to take. She pushed down a well of despair. She had no money, no place to go, no friends save Miriam and she would not risk bringing Tiege’s attention to her and her family. A sudden urge to encase herself in Bran’s strong arms snapped her out of her black thoughts.

She glanced at the two children. Several times Adria had caught Cyma in a giggle but as soon as her attention landed on her, the little girl had assumed a stoic façade equal to the carved statues in the Forum. She paused in her pacing and spoke. “What do you do to fill your days?”

Julian glanced at her, his expression mulish, and began tapping the point of his wooden sword on the floor between his feet. “We stay in the house.”

Adria drew back. “All the time?”

“We get to visit Bryna sometimes,” piped Cyma before shrinking beneath Julian’s warning glare.

Bryna? A strange name though it had a female sound to it. Adria frowned at the flash of irritation that went through her. If she were not certain of her loathing for the barbarian she might have called it a prick of jealousy. Gods, insanity was already taking root. “I know you play and your arguments alone should entertain you,” she said with a wry smile. “Have you no lessons?”

Julian looked appalled. “A gladiator learns his lessons in the arena.”

Cyma tilted her head, curiosity creasing her brow. “What are lessons?”

Adria crouched down to Cyma’s level, stroked the kitten who purred and stretched its tiny paws. “Lessons are learning how to do things. How to read and write, to calculate sums.”

The little girl’s blue eyes rounded with wonder. “Do you know how to do such things?”

Adria bit her lip. She did know how to read and to write not only Latin but Greek and Aramic as well. Learning was the only thing she’d had as a child. Unusual for a female, at least a
plebian
female but as a physician her father had valued education. Even for a daughter.  “Yes, I know how to do these things.”

Cyma’s soft little face took on a dreamy look that tugged at Adria’s heart. She supposed it could not hurt to instruct the children in a few basic subjects. It would occupy her time until she decided on her plan. Cocking her head at Cyma, she asked, “Would you like to learn?”

Cyma shook her head vigorously and raised up on her knees, the kitten mewling in protest. “Oh, yes, I should like that.”

Adria smiled at the girl’s eagerness. She held out her hand, her heart catching when Cyma took it. “We’ll go inside and see what we might find to help us.”

It was quiet in the house, the only sounds muted noise from the street beyond the bolted front entry. Adria hated the stillness, had never liked being alone. She was used to people shouting in the courtyard between Miriam’s
insulae,
laughing and arguing behind their own closed doors, unaware or uncaring if others heard their business. Bran’s house sat apart from others, as far as she’d been able to tell in their hurried entrance yesterday. Only a few buildings of higher quality close by but not crammed together like jumbled blocks of stone. She ached to be home, where life was familiar, where she was free.

Where is home? The streets?

She cast a longing look at the door and for a brief moment considered discarding her plan to stay hidden. Menw’s warning that Bran would not allow it drifted back to her. He was right. The brute had tracked her down and fought a roomful of hardened, well-armed men all to recover a handful of jewelry. What would he do to someone who disobeyed him?

She wasn’t afraid of Bran’s threats, she assured herself, at least not the verbal ones. But there were others, unspoken and potent. She’d seen them in his eyes this morning and she shivered against the thrill that shot through her core at the vivid memory.

Cyma skipped ahead, pulling at her hand. “Teach me to write first.”

“Warriors do not need to write,” grumbled Julian who trailed along behind them, despite his purported disinterest.

Cyma led Adria through the various rooms. There were no scrolls, no parchment, no
stylus
of any type to be found. Adria stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the kitchen. A piece of charcoal would have sufficed as a writing tool but the morning’s fire had consumed what was left.

“I did not really want to learn to read,” Cyma said on a sigh.

The little girl’s disappointment was palpable. Adria had never been able to abide a child in distress. That’s why she had risked returning to the fruit vendor for Mili. Which had caused her to cross paths with Tiege. Which had led her to Paulin the jeweler, which had brought her into the company of an arrogant, irate barbarian, which had led to her present circumstances...

Cyma sighed at the same time Adria did.

Adria strolled toward the doorway that Bran had left through earlier in the day, surprised to find a small plot of land behind the
domus
. It was nearly double the size of the lower floor, unusual for such a modest, Roman house. The stone walls she had contemplated from the roof were taller than she supposed and solidly built, lending reassurance as well as despair. Tiege would not get through easily nor would she.

There were a few trees and a line of bushes bursting with red flowers hugging the southern border seeming to point the way toward a small stable wedged into the far corner. Squinting, she could just make out a wooden gate buried in the wall next to the building.

“There’s nothing out here,” declared Julian, sending her a superior smirk very much reminiscent of his older brother.

Adria raised her brows. “You think not?” She scratched her toe in the bare patch of dirt next to the walkway. “Cyma, fetch the water left from breakfast.”

Cyma scurried to do her bidding while Adria found a flat rock that fit easily in her hands. She knelt on the ground and began to scrape at the clay dirt.

“You look like a chicken searching for worms,” laughed Julian.

If she hadn’t sensed loneliness beneath his derisive words, Adria would have been tempted to give the boy the palm of her hand on his impudent little bottom. Instead, she stayed to her task. Cyma returned and crouched down to watch Adria add the water in small amounts to her mound of dirt. Using her hand, she mixed it into a large, sticky mass.

“I already know how to make mud,” taunted Julian. But from the corner of her eye she saw him creep closer craning his neck to watch. With eager hands, Cyma helped her to smooth the mud into a rough rectangle shape.

Adria stood and eyed the sun overhead. “It should not take too long for our writing tablet to be ready. Now, to find something to use for a
stylus.
”

Julian walked casually over to a cracked urn propped against the back of the house. He reached inside and drew out two rusted nails and without looking at her held them up.

Adria smiled.

Chapter Ten

A
ghhhh
!

Bran sucked the blister on his forefinger and glowered at the molten gold cooling into a ruined lump on his work table. It was the third time he’d tried to get the wire stretched to the length he needed to match the four others waiting to be braided. Concentration while working with his metal had never been a problem before. It was the one spot in this infernal hell called Rome where he could focus on something besides the soul-eating pain—at least while he was sober. But today it had been as if he had ten thumbs and none of them functioned.

Cyclops, the lone goat they kept for milk, made a derisive snort from his stall.

“Stupid beast,” Bran muttered. “It would be far cheaper to cut your throat and spit you over a fire.
I
do not drink milk.”

Cyclops bleated again, which to Bran’s ears sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

The source of his distraction laughed, a rich, throaty sound that floated through the window and mocked his dark mood.  How was he to get any work completed with all that noise?

Adria laughed again. Bran growled and tossed the iron tongs in his hand onto the table. What did she find so humorous? She was his prisoner. She lived in
Rome
, by the gods! He stalked to the door and leaned against the frame, careful to remain in the shadows just as he had the half-dozen other times he’d spied on Adria since she and the children had ventured outdoors.

The two little hellions seemed as content as that troublesome kitten of theirs after a meal of warm milk. Well, Cyma was at any rate. Julian, practicing at a distance with his play sword, was plainly resisting the pull of the enemy. Good boy!

The smug satisfaction he’d felt leaving Adria with the two wildlings this morning had whetted his appetite for retribution. He’d read the sheer terror in her eyes, the lack of confidence—an unfamiliar feeling for the girl, he suspected. He’d fully expected to find the little thief trussed up like a quail waiting for the spit by the noon meal. He’d not noticed the quiet at first. When it had lasted, without one scream or screech for longer than an hour he’d considered rescuing Adria if only to enjoy her fury that a barbarian would come to her aid.