Barbarian's Soul (2 page)

The servants in his sister’s household were more accustomed to his imposing presence. Basil, her butler, went so far as to offer him a slight smile as he was ushered inside.

He found Bryna reclined on a couch in the small, enclosed garden Jared had built especially for his wife. Heavily planted with dark firs, thick green grass and flowering bushes, it had the feel of the forest rather than the hot, dryness of most Roman landscapes. Meant to remind her of home, he supposed, but it lacked the healing essence of Eire’s lush beauty.

Bryna looked up at his approach, stirring a brother’s pride with her beauty. She had inherited the coloring of their mother—fair complexion, smooth as cream, deep-gold hair touched with red highlights and eyes the same vibrant emerald as his own. She’d also been born with their mother’s fiery temperament which he now saw sparking in her eyes.

“Good morn, sister,” he said, leaning down to brush a kiss across her forehead, pleased when he sensed her pique slip beneath his attention.

“And to you, brother, though it is midday rather than morning.”

He settled on the couch opposite her and managed a slight smile. “Midday? Why the cock has only now finished crowing.”

She gave him a chiding look. “I heard no cock crowing.”

“Most likely because the poor creatures are considered too banal for the likes of the almighty Romans.” He helped himself to a handful of almonds from an ornate glass bowl. “They only eat peacocks and use their elaborate plumes to decorate everything from their hair to their asses.”

Bryna laughed. It pleased him to hear it, for he knew she’d not during her time in captivity. As reticent as he was about their time as slaves, his sister had shared only a small part of what she’d endured. Even that much made the weight of his guilt heavier. Because he had fabricated a tale to safeguard her virtue, she’d been forced to play oracle, predicting futures for naive customers for a greedy master.

At the time, his purpose had been to save her from being ravaged by those same captors on the journey to Alexandria. And it had worked. The Romans were a superstitious lot and the slavers who’d brokered their sale ignorant enough to believe defiling the barbarian slave would rob her of a very marketable asset. But his spirited sister had then spent six months isolated in an airless room before the man who would be her husband had sought her assistance.

What had happened after that he’d not quite pieced together.

“How does my nephew?”

Bryna’s face lit up as she smiled down at the carved wooden cradle beside the divan. Beneath the coverlet Bran could see a shock of black hair. “He is well. I’d only just finished feeding him before your arrival. He has a healthy appetite and is growing at a rapid pace.” She looked up at him. “What of the children, Bran? Are they well?”

The children. Beatrix’s children. A sharp pain tightened his gut. “Well enough,” he answered gruffly, biting into a piece of cheese. “Cyma and Julian amuse themselves and Linus...” Bran paused, thinking about the angry fifteen year old testing his limits—his own and Bran’s. “Linus will find his way.”

Bryna nodded slowly. “It must be difficult for you and Menw, raising three children.”

Bran shifted in his seat. He did not care for the direction of this conversation. “It is not so difficult. They have what they need; food, clothing, a warm, safe place to sleep.” He’d made sure of that. Those children would lack for nothing until the boys became of age and he found a worthy husband for Cyma. He’d promised Beatrix—as she died in his arms.

“Nevertheless, you are a good man to have taken them in,” Bryna replied.

Bran cringed under Bryna’s praise. There had been no other choice. That one, tiny shard of honor the Romans had not beaten out of him had demanded he care for them after their mother’s death. He clenched his jaw at the memories of Beatrix’s rich sable hair curling down her back, of liquid brown eyes so full of life, her generous mouth curved into a smile. Her legs wrapped around his waist as they’d made love.

Her lifeless body lying in the sand.

“Still,” Bryna continued, “they are very young. Have you given any more thought to finding a nursemaid for them?”

He tossed the almonds in his hand back into the bowl. “No. I do not have the funds to purchase a nurse. Menw is managing well enough.”

“Is he?” Bryna smoothed the coverlet over her son. “He looked very tired yesterday when he came to visit.”

He narrowed his eyes. Menw had been visiting his sister?

Bryna smiled. “I believe our clansman has developed quite an interest in our Judith. Are you sleeping well, brother?”

He looked at Bryna from beneath his lashes at the deft change of subject. “Well enough.” He gritted his teeth as her expression fell. He wished he could be the brother she remembered but the Romans and their games had turned his soul black. It was taking every ounce of his will to maintain this much civility.

“I’m...I’m glad,” she stammered.

Bran frowned at the sensation within his head. It was light at first, like the touch of a butterfly wing then the intensity increased to a forceful push and he raised, with no effort, a mental wall against it. He shot a narrowed look to Bryna who averted her eyes, pretending interest in the silken fringe of her shawl. “What are you about, sister?”

She turned back toward him. “I worry for you, Bran. Your heart bears no joy, you find no enjoyment in life.”

The anger welled against his restraint. How could he find enjoyment in a life left in shreds? “A point well taken as you’ve nearly smothered me with your concerns since we arrived in Rome,” he answered with a sneer.

Bryna’s eyes flashed. “As if you haven’t done the same with me? Dear gods, you nearly ripped Jared in half when he came for me in Alexandria.”

“I thought he was your
master
,” he replied tightly. “I’d just found you alive and I wasn’t about to let a Roman make you his slave again. I would have ripped him to shreds to keep you safe.”

It was the compassion blended with understanding in his sister’s softened gaze that chafed him. He did not deserve it. There were things he’d done to survive that would horrify her...things that horrified him. Menw was right—there was no way to change the past. He just wished there was some way to forget it.

“Thank the goddess Danu you refrained,” she replied dryly, “And Ceallach thanks you also.”

The babe in the cradle stirred. Ceallach Micah Damon Antoninus
his nephew. So many names for a child just six months old. And so many heritages; Hebrew, Roman and the strongest and best, Celt. The boy would need the fierceness of his mother’s people to make his way in this vile Roman world.

Bryna lifted the babe from his blankets and before Bran could utter a protest, laid the boy in his arms. He clutched the small bundle awkwardly, afraid to move lest he drop his nephew on his head. He was used to holding a sword or spear, not a squirming child.

“He will not break,” said Bryna with a small laugh.

Bran wasn’t quite convinced of that. He looked down at Ceallach who met his gaze with large, trusting eyes already turning the same hue he and Bryna shared. The boy had been born with a full head of hair as midnight black as his Roman father and it was already curling along the back of his neck. It wouldn’t be long, Bran mused, before it would be of a length to braid like a true warrior.

“Who will teach him to be this warrior?”

Bran spared Bryna a glance, not even wondering how she’d known his thoughts. “It is his father’s place.”

Bryna shook her head. “That is true and Jared will teach his son well. But he was not taught from boyhood the use of weapons, the art of defending his people.” Her expression softened. “In truth, he had no one to show him the way.”

There may not have been anyone to teach his brother-in-law as a lad, but he’d learned somewhere. Bran still remembered Jared’s fierce determination the day he’d come to his lodgings in Alexandria to claim Bryna. The man would have fought his way through all the Roman legions to get to his woman. “Your husband knows well how to protect what is his.”

“And why would my family need protection?”

Pure joy spread over Bryna’s face as her husband strode into the garden. Jared of Alexandria might well be a merchant, Bran mused, but he had the bearing of a warrior. Standing a full head taller than most of his puny countrymen, he walked with broad shoulders squared and a proud tilt to his head. Strong hands, fully capable of using the short
gladius
hanging from his belt, reached for his wife, bringing her into the circle of his arms.

Ceallach shifted, drawing Bran’s attention away from the intimate kiss the couple fell into. He eyed his nephew, who gave him a wide, toothless smile, and managed a chuckle. “Do you think your uncle too dense that he doesn’t have sense to look away?” he whispered in Gaelic. He’d have had to have been a blind man not to see the hot desire that flared in Jared’s eyes as he’d looked at Bryna. It was enough to make a brother squirm.

There had been a time in his life before he had been enslaved that he’d hoped to find a heart match, one like his parents who were as in love with each other today as the day they had handfasted. But that hope had shriveled into a pile of ash the first day he’d killed for the pleasure of a cheering crowd. It eased his mind to know that Bryna had found this even if, he sent a sidelong look to where Jared and Bryna embraced, it was with a Roman.

“Despite my wife’s expert attempt at distraction,” said Jared, nipping at Bryna’s lower lip before turning to Bran, “I would ask again; why would my family need protection?”

Bryna ran a finger along her husband’s jaw and smiled when he caught it and held it in his hand—while the other caressed the hilt of his sword. His unwavering gaze never left Bran’s.

Yes, Bryna and her son would be in good hands.

“There are no dangers at present, Roman,” he said, tamping down the pull at his heart when Ceallach caught his finger in his tiny fist. “Not unless you count that friend of yours drawing the attention of the lunatic you Romans call Emperor.”

Jared cringed at that. “Damon saved the Emperor’s treasury significant coin, exposed the Urban Prefect’s embezzlement. He has Nero’s gratitude.”

Bran rose and handed Ceallach to Bryna. “A fleeting thing from a madman but that is only a
barbarian’s
opinion.” He saw the truth of his words reflected in the concern in Jared’s dark gold eyes. “Leaving the city now, before his insanity worsens would be a wise man’s choice.”

Bryna turned an anxious gaze to Bran, her eyes searching his face.

“I will visit again soon,” Bran said, with a kiss to her cheek and a brush of a finger through the baby’s hair. He turned on his heel, feeling Jared’s speculative gaze at his back and stalked out of the house. The full moon had just passed. By the time the next one came, he
would
be gone.

Chapter Two

C
urse the god who created monkeys.

Adria toyed with the end of her braid and watched the annoying ball of fur strut along the pole separating her from her target. Every few paces it would stand straight up on its hind legs, stretch its hairy arms wide, puff out its chest and let out an ear-splitting screech. He—and she was certain it was a he by his pompous attitude—carried an enormous amount of arrogance for an animal, nurtured she’d wager by the fine silver collar and tiny quilted vest of purple silk it wore. Only patricians wore the color of royalty.

This beast clearly considered itself a prince.

She chewed on her lower lip and considered her options. She’d already visited this stall once today for her own morning meal and she held to a very strict rule never to patronize the same merchant more than once a week. Too many visits increased the risk of being recognized, something a good thief learned to avoid.

And she was a good thief.

Adria’s breath hitched against a stab of guilt. Her parents would have been horrified at the distinction. She was a daughter of Rome—descended from Romulus himself, her father used to boast. They may have been lean of coin, he’d say, but they were rich with pride. Perhaps that was true, she thought ruefully, but pride did not fill an empty belly.

A loud argument broke out between two men at the neighboring merchant, their dispute over a tattered, day-old fish escalating from shouts to fists in a matter of moments. Adria slipped behind a column to avoid the brawl and settled into the shadows to watch. Outbreaks of violence were not uncommon in Rome’s streets. Too many people, not enough food. Desperate poverty and empty stomachs tended to ignite tempers.

Adria glanced past the dueling pair into the dust-filled street, wrinkled her nose at the pungent odor emanating from the fuller’s and cringed as a patrician noble berated his slaves for jostling his sedan chair. Yes, her parents had been proud of their Roman bloodlines, plebian as they were, but they had never envisioned a life of destitution for their only child. But then they had not anticipated dying of swamp fever either and leaving their twelve-year-old daughter an orphan.

Her thoughts drifted back to that horrid time. The days following the funeral rites had passed in a dark fog. She’d been confused, her heart carved out of her chest by grief. Ousted from the simple house her parents had rented on the pastoral edge of Rome, she’d gathered her meager belongings and traveled into the city to seek out her mother’s cousin. She’d not counted on her relation being the proprietress of a brothel. Adria shivered. She could still see the shrewd gleam in the woman’s eye, hear the crude verbal assessment of her young body. Naïve as she had been, she’d known what her fate would be if she stayed. Leaving her possessions and the few coins she’d had, she’d fled into the streets—the streets she now called home.

Living in squalor was far from pleasant, each day depending as much on scraps of kindness as scraps of food. It had been horrible and frightening, as fraught with danger as her cousin’s house but she’d managed to keep her wits, Adria’s skills and instincts honed by fear as much as determination. She wouldn’t wish such desperation on anyone. Which is why she’d agreed to help Mili.