Barbarian's Soul: A Historical Romance Read online

  He squinted through his injured eye as he rose to his feet. “The night is spent,” he growled. “I hear Menw below in the cooking area. You will assist him in preparing the morning meal and then take the children in hand. Come.”

  Chapter Nine

  Barbarians were an infuriating race.

  That was the thought foremost in Adria’s mind as she trailed Bran down the short, narrow corridor to the stairs leading to the lower level of the domus. Of course barbarians were not a race unto themselves. The designation was one placed on any number of uncivilized peoples bold enough to challenge Rome’s assimilation of their lands, their culture, their wealth. Their lives.

  Barbarians were ignorant, she’d heard the politicians proclaim, wild and unpredictable, no more than dumb animals. It was Rome’s duty to subjugate them. A mistake, her father used to say, to underestimate people threatened with the loss of their homes.

  Staring at the broad back in front of her, Adria felt as if she had been as shortsighted as the Empire’s legions. Not in terms of mental capacity, not in the least. From the first moment she’d looked into that formidable emerald glare, she’d recognized the shrewdness, the keen intellect. Perhaps not in the manner of a scholar. Even in Rome only patricians could afford formal education. But there was no doubting Bran’s intelligence or, she thought, her blood heating, the raw, primal wildness barely leashed beneath that intellect.

  Adria stifled a sigh. She was usually adept at judging other people, identifying their strengths, finding their weaknesses. A certain natural flair, she supposed, honed by living in the streets. But Bran refused to fit into any of the convenient niches she’d placed him in. She’d never expected him to react with such anger at the loss of his precious jewelry, especially when it had already passed out of his hands. Ranting and raving, yes. Perhaps a stomping of feet, loud cursing or other typical male responses, none of those would have surprised her.

  Instead, Bran had hunted her down with a single-minded purpose that still caused her head to spin. And had he done so because of the loss of coin? No. He’d tracked her, cornered her, and abducted her because his honor—his precious barbarian honor—had been tarnished.

  And to awaken lying beneath him? Adria chewed on her lip at the memory of how that powerful body towering over her had taken her breath away and ignited a heat within her blood that still simmered. A transitory image of arms holding her gently, almost soothingly passed through her mind. For one brief moment she’d felt safe. Adria felt the flush of heat on her neck which only deepened when Bran glanced over his shoulder and raised one brow.

  Arrogant, she added to her mental list of Bran’s faults as she followed him down the stairs.

  Cyma stood at the foot of the stairs. The little girl looked as if she had just tumbled out of bed, her golden ringlets snarled into a tangle down her back and her beautiful blue eyes still clouded with sleep. Adria held her breath when Bran reached the bottom, certain he would snap at the child. Instead he stretched out his hand. Cyma smiled and without a word between them, grasped it and skipped beside her father to the kitchen.

  Adria stared in disbelief. The little girl had not been frightened, had not appeared the least bit intimidated by Bran’s frowning visage. Well, she thought as she continued down the stairs, she absolutely refused to add tenderness to the roll of his attributes. Even beasts were attentive to their young. Before they ate them.

  “Where is Linus?”

  Adria entered the kitchen as Bran asked the question while straddling a crude wooden bench beside the lone table.

  “He ate his meal and bolted while I was sweeping the entry,” replied Menw from where he stood slicing coarse bread into thick slices. “He muttered something unintelligible, though you might guess the essence of his message.” Menw turned and seeing Adria lingering by the doorway motioned her to the table with a smile.

  Adria acknowledged him with a slight nod, but she kept a wary eye on Bran who acted as though she were not even present. A blessing, she thought, as she joined Julian and Cyma on the opposite bench. Cyma wriggled to make room for her, bumping her brother in the process. Julian scowled at his sister and reached for his wooden sword.

  “Hold, warrior,” said Adria, gently nudging Cyma aside to sit between them, “your opponent is unarmed.” Julian gave her a cool sideways look and continued eating his meal while Cyma giggled. Adria felt Bran’s attention skim across her but when she raised her eyes he was looking at Menw.

  “I do not like it,” Bran grumbled, reaching for a bowl filled with honey. He slathered a piece of bread with the sticky confection and took a huge bite.

  Adria’s gaze locked on a small drop of honey that clung to Bran’s lower lip. His mouth was hard, masculine and tempting. Through the haze of her receding dream his mouth had been only a brush away. The scent of wine from his breath had sparked an unreasonable urge to taste that mouth. From beneath lowered lids she watched him lick it away. Her moment of insanity cleared when Menw spoke.

  “You cannot keep him confined, Bran.” Menw poured himself a goblet of water. “He is finding his way.”

  Bran grunted. “Finding his way? In the streets of Rome?”

  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 nursem
aid.

  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 knel
t 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

  Aghhhh!

  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?