Barbarian's Soul (4 page)

A small pang of longing shot thorough her at the thought of her parents. How the bastard knew about them was not nearly as concerning as the fact he knew the mention of them would cause her pain. “Whatever it is you want, I am not interested.”

Tiege matched her steps as she tried to leave, effectively blocked her escape. She had to swallow the bile that rose in her throat from the offensive stench of body odor badly masked with cheap sandalwood scent as he sidled close to her.

“I’ve been observing you, girl. Been very patient. I’ve allowed you an extraordinary amount of time to hone your abilities, talents that I find myself in need of.” He reached out a grimy hand and stroked one finger down her cheek. “It’s time for you to repay my generosity.”

It took everything Adria had not to spit in his face. The audacity of the bastard. She forced herself to hold his cold stare, even as her next move caused her to doubt her sanity. “As generous as your offer is,” she answered with far more calm then she felt. “I find I must decline. And I believe you will agree.”

In other circumstances she would have found his expression amusing when she pressed the sharp point of her knife against his groin, channeling all her fear into keeping the blade steady. Positioned in such a way that if he were to try and pull away, he’d leave with only one of his balls intact.

She increased the pressure the slightest bit and watched the shock in his eyes turn to cold rage. “Tell your henchman in the shadows to move that stack of tiles to the left of the wall,” she said evenly, though inside she was quaking. “The others need to leave—now.”

Tiege hesitated, eyed her with a look of pure venom. It added to the sour bile in her throat to stand so close to him, yet it was necessary for advantage. She gripped her knife tighter to still her trembling hand and applied more pressure.

His glare white hot, Tiege gave the commands. Adria doubted he’d be as entertained by the confused looks of his men as she was as they followed his directions. “Walk backward,” she ordered in a low voice. He let out a low growl but did as she said. As much as it made her gag, she kept pace with him, making sure he could feel the blade with each step. Once they’d reached the entrance she put all her weight against him and pushed.

Taking only a brief moment to relish seeing the thief sprawled on the ground, Adria toppled over a stack of clay jars to block the way, spun on her heel and raced toward the back of the alley. Behind her she heard the master thief roar his outrage. She reached the wall, tossed the bag of oranges over, climbed on the stack of tiles and vaulted over the top. She landed on her ankle, twisting it on the hard ground. The shouting and cursing from behind the wall caused her to ignore the pain and run as if the hounds of Hades snapped at her heels.

She took a circuitous path through abandoned alleys, pushed against people crowding the larger streets, slowed her steps only to ease the pain in her ankle. Bent over, hand to her side, Adria tried not to let the knowledge that Tiege had been watching her overwhelm her ability to think.

She’d never spoken to the man before, steered clear of him as anyone with half a mind would do. Did he consider her competition? She discarded that thought almost before she completed it. She stole for herself, for survival—not wealth, prestige or power like the master thief. A cold knot formed in her stomach as another fear took root. He’d known about her parents. What else might he know?

Gods, what had she done? Tiege would never forget nor forgive such an affront. No matter how good her survival skills, the master thief would not rest until she had paid for her insult.

She should leave Rome, leave until Tiege had forgotten her, taken his greedy interests and laid them at another’s doorstep. Her steps faltered again. But where would she go? She had no family, had lived most of her life in the heart of the city. How would she survive anyplace else?

There was only one immediate solution. She would stay hidden, bide her time while she figured out the best approach. She clutched the bag of oranges close to her body. But first, she had ambrosia to deliver.

Adria had never been so glad to see the stark, brick tenement she’d called home. Dodging one of the neighbor’s goats, she waved to another woman as she stopped at the communal well for a drink. She was hot and dusty, had spent three times as long traveling back, determined to lose any of Tiege’s men who might have been set to follow.

I’ve been watching you.

Not here, he could not be watching her here. This building was far from the marketplaces she frequented, a random situation, but one she relished. It was a respite to a certain degree to leave the grit of her daily activities with the crowds and not bring it home.

Not a home exactly, she thought with a pang of longing as she climbed the crumbling stone steps to the top story, but at least a dry place to sleep, a refuge from the squalor, the insidious dangers that lurked around every corner in the city’s dilapidated districts. A safe distance from Tiege’s district.

I’ve been watching you.

She closed her eyes. Please gods let it be far enough.

Six years. Had it really been that long since her life had taken such a drastic turn? Then, she had been a happy twelve-year old, living with her parents in a small house near the Palatine. She’d had no worries, no concerns about where her next meal might come from or if she’d be able to find a safe place to lay her head at night. Nor had she known about the devastating effects of swamp fever, the dreadful disease that had taken both her parents within days of each other.

“Did you deliver your
gift
?”

Adria jumped, cursing when she nearly fell off the steps. Gods, she had to hold onto her senses. Tiege would not risk exposing himself by accosting her in public. No, he’d send one of his henchmen to slip out of the shadows to slit her throat.

Gods.

“Adria?”

Adria glanced up at the woman watching her from the narrow door at the top of the stairs. Miriam was not old, but years of worry and want had etched deep lines around her eyes and robbed her of the beauty she’d once possessed. A friend to her mother, the Hebrew laundress had taken her in after her escape from her disreputable relation and given her a place to stay. A generous thing, considering she already had five children of her own to feed.

“Mili’s grandmother is now enjoying her oranges,” she replied lightly, pausing in the doorway to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “The old woman was as happy as if Jupiter himself had served it to her in a goblet of gold.”

Miriam did not reply but followed her into the single cramped room of the apartment. Something was not right, Adria thought, as she stepped over two rolled up pallets to fill a cracked clay bowl with the remaining oranges. Her friend was so quiet. Miriam was usually talkative, filling her in on the latest gossip of the
insulae,
which wife was sleeping with which husband—not necessarily their own—news from the market or an adventure of one of the children.

She studied Miriam surreptitiously. She did seem a bit pale, her face drawn and tired. And thin—and she hadn’t been a robust woman to begin with. A bolt of dread shot through Adria. Her parent’s illness had started in the same manner. A bone deep fatigue, sallow color, loss of appetite. “Here,” she said, a little too brightly even to her own ears, “I’ve saved you the choicest one.”

Miriam waved it away and sank down on the lone stool in the apartment with a heavy sigh. “I am not hungry.”

Tears stung the back of Adria’s eyes. She walked over and knelt beside the stool, taking Miriam’s cold hands in her own. “You are not well?”

Miriam smiled down at her, brushed a wisp of hair from Adria’s forehead and cupped her cheek tenderly. “You are such a precious girl. Always thinking of others. Always doing for others. I don’t know how we would have survived these past years without your help.”

Adria’s stomach clutched at the despair in Miriam’s eyes. “You know I do so with a glad heart. If not for you, I do not know where I would be now.” Dead or worse. The streets of Rome were rife with danger. A young girl without family was easy prey for the gangs that fought for power and influence among the mob. She thought about her cousin’s brothel. She thought about Tiege and shivered. Forcing a smile to her lips she said. “And I will continue to help. Food, coin when I can.” Except I have to leave to evade a deranged criminal.

Miriam held her gaze for one long moment then looked away. “No, Adria. You will not have to put yourself in danger for us any longer.”

The room suddenly seemed smaller, the very air thick with a crushing sense that her world was about to change and there was nothing she could do to stop it. “What do you mean?” she managed to ask past the lump in her throat.

“Lycus has raised the rent again.”

Adria’s jaw tightened. Lycus. The freedman, now slimy landlord, who squeezed the very life out of his tenants with restrictive leases riddled with ridiculous fees. A charge to fill your water jars at the fountain in the courtyard, another for the privilege of cooking meals within the confines of the building. She knew of no other owner of an
insulae
who made such outrageous demands. “How much?”

“Nearly double,” answered Miriam wearily, “plus an additional cost of five
quadrans
for each person residing in the apartment.”

That was nearly twenty-five
sestarces
. “He should be gutted like the pig he is.” Adria muttered.

Miriam’s lips quirked. “So bloodthirsty?”

Adria pushed to her feet and started pacing the floor, her injured ankle forgotten. “There has to be something we can do.” There had to be. Miriam and her children were her family. She had no one else. She sent a sideways glance at Miriam who had absently begun to fold a tattered blanket from her son’s pallet and emotion tightened her throat. They did not need her nearly as much as she needed them. “We’ll petition the magistrate for justice.”

Miriam shook her head. “You know full well that the magistrate is as corrupt as any in the government. Our plea would fall on deaf ears.”

That small spark of hope sank with her heart. Miriam was right. There was not one representative of the government who cared a whit about any of the plebians. The mob, as they so derisively called the common people, were beneath their regard. It mattered little to them if the general populace had food to eat as long as their own coffers were filled with coin. “There must be some way to find the funds.”

Miriam made a scoffing noise. “It would take a miracle.”

Or another trip to the market. An image of the glowering barbarian came to mind. Would he be there? Gods, what was the matter with her? Adria came to her feet and brushed a kiss on top of Miriam’s head saying over her shoulder as she rushed out the door, “You’re always talking about faith, Miriam. I just might have that miracle you need.”

But, Adria thought, she might have to trade her soul to get it.

Chapter Three

B
ran despised the Forum.

It didn’t matter that the crowds gave him plenty of space, intimidated by, as Menw so often and annoyingly put it, Bran’s potent charm. He directed some of that charm in the form of a scowl to a group of chattering young women moving in his direction. Eyes widening, they scurried out of his way but not before he saw the admiring glances they sent him over their shoulders as they stared at his ass. There would have been a time in his life, a time two years ago, when such ardent appreciation from a group of females would have fed his male pride to the point of bursting.

But that had been before his enslavement, before his fame and renown as a gladiator had made him an object of curiosity, the object of patrician women’s fantasy. It had sickened him the way the wealthy women of Alexandria had thrown themselves at him, vying for his attentions like mares in heat might a stallion. Appalled him more that his man’s body had responded to their eager pawing. The humiliation had been unbearable. Coupled with the death and destruction he’d been forced to commit it was no surprise he’d become more animal than man.

“Not everyone has such long legs as yours,” complained Menw, huffing as he caught up with him at the alley leading to the jeweler’s. He shifted the carved chest in his arms, balancing it on his stump.

Bran cringed inwardly, knowing Menw would refuse any assistance. He could easily have carried the coffer but his clansman had insisted that the Roman merchants he bargained with would not expect a master craftsman to carry his own goods. What did he care what the bastards thought? He needed coin, not their false respect. “I wish only to be done with this business,” he bit out. “This is the last commissioned piece for the jeweler and the most profitable. I need the money to settle my debts.”

Menw rolled his eyes. “You have more wealth hoarded away than the high king himself and what are these debts you need to settle?”

“The rent on the house these past six months,” he answered gruffly.

“Your brother-in-law owns the house and provides it to you at no cost.”

A fact that had gnawed at Bran’s gut every day of those six months. In Eire he’d been fully capable of taking care of his own and as a freedman he would also do so. “I do not need charity from a Roman.”

Menw gave him an exasperated look. “He is your family, the husband of your sister who, unlike her thick-skulled brother, has not forgotten the value of hospitality.” He shifted the coffer again and sniffed. “In Eire you would never have turned away a stranger seeking refuge much less a member of your clan.”

“Hospitality,” he sneered. “Bah! See where that got me? Bound in chains and dragged oceans away from home.”

“Bran, you do not know...”

“I
know,
old man!” Bran hissed through clenched teeth. A muscle worked furiously in his jaw as he fought to keep the anger within him from clawing to the surface. He’d had ample time during endless days of pain and deprivation to recall the events of the day of their enslavement. He’d gone over and over it in his mind, sorting through the faces of the Ileni men who had come to trade that day. Men he’d known. Men he’d trusted. Men who’d turned a routine interaction into a fight for their lives.