Barbarian's Soul (5 page)

Betrayed.

The word was branded on his soul.

The carnage of the arena had drained him of compassion, of civility, of patience. Now the least little matter could send the animal within him into a rage. It had taken months after gaining his freedom to learn how to control the urge to strike out when his anger was sparked. He was not always successful.

Bran inhaled slow, steadying breaths and sent a sideways look to his friend. How Menw, who had also been enslaved, mutilated and treated like the lowest dog could argue against the obvious escaped him. But his friend seemed determined to believe that their enslavement had been a random misfortune, a simple matter of their trading party being in the wrong location at an inopportune time. He leveled a hard look at Menw’s complacent expression. “Someone that I offered this virtuous hospitality to betrayed me...betrayed
us
.”

“As you say,” Menw replied mildly.

He clamped his jaw tight against the desire to knock some sense into Menw’s stone head. They’d argued about this countless times since he’d found Menw, emaciated and barely alive, laboring on a farm in a coastal province of Egypt. He’d been the only one of their original trading party save Bryna that Bran had been able to locate and free. Three others, all members of his clan, all friends, had disappeared into the hell of the Empire. One, Gair, had been as a brother to him from their days as boys. The other two, cousins visiting from the western clans.

A fine chieftain he would have made, he thought bitterly, when he’d not been able to keep his men safe.

Pushing the dark thoughts away he turned on his heel and headed toward the jeweler’s market gaining a measure of satisfaction at the curse muttered behind his back.

Bran followed the narrow lane for a half-dozen blocks until it opened into a secluded section of the Forum known as the
saeptia-Campus Martins
. Only the most prominent Romans shopped in this exclusive area. The common folk of Rome knew better than to cross the invisible lines from their hovels to the enclave of luxury shops.

Even with the fine weave of his tunic, the quality of his boots, the solid gold bands circling his wrists hiding the scars from his chains, Bran stood apart from the bustling crowd of patricians and wealthy equestrians. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. These privileged Romans reminded him too much of the crowds who had flocked to watch him in the arena, the same haughty bastards who had screamed demands that he finish off the opponents bleeding at his feet. The same ones who’d cheered wildly when he’d lifted the defeated men by their hair and swiped his blade across their throats.

By Danu, he hated them.

If there had been any other, viable, choice he never would have ventured into this part of Rome. Choice. He scoffed to himself. That was a right he’d been denied these past years. A slave had no choices and a gladiator only one; kill or be killed. He’d made that one in his first match, a Nubian who had died clutching the hilt of Bran’s sword buried in his neck.

But even as a freedman his choices were limited. Determined to stand on his own, he’d needed a way to earn coin. Jared had advised him that this was the best place in the city to sell the intricate pieces of jewelry and other adornments he crafted. He hadn’t been convinced, arguing that the arrogant patricians would turn up their noses at his trinkets. But his brother-in-law was a consummate tradesman and the merchant he had introduced him to was impressed—and greedy enough—that he could overlook the fact that the jewelry was made by a foreigner.

Working with his hands, molding and shaping gold, bronze and silver into items of beauty had once been Bran’s passion. He would spend hours in the beehive hut he’d built at the edge of his father’s land for his workshop, stoking the smelting fire until it blazed with the white, hot heat needed to make the metals malleable. He had had mallets of all sizes, pincers, tongs, chisels and an assortment of thin hazelwood rods tipped with loops and sharp, curved points he had fashioned specifically for the delicate work.

He had been known as the son of Fynbar, the man whom the clan most favored to succeed his father as the
ruiri
or great king. But it had been the quality and artistry of his rings, torcs, amulets, bracelets, brooches and
fibulae
that had gained Bran renown throughout Eire. He’d trained as a warrior, knew how to till the land and raise the cattle and sheep that helped his clan prosper, all the while trading the pieces he created to increase his personal wealth. A fact, he suspected, that had led to his betrayal.

The degradation and humiliation of slavery coupled with the horror of fighting in the arena had, he’d thought, destroyed that place deep within him that wanted, that needed, to create objects of beauty. How could it not when all the things that had inspired him had been taken from him? When the light within had been darkened by the blood on his hands?

Bran slowed his steps as he approached the jeweler’s shop. He hated lowering himself to deal with the Roman elite, but living in this cesspool required coin. Everything from bread to wine to clothes and shoes were purchased rather than made. He could have survived with much less but three children required more and so he’d forced himself to deal with the prick. As he’d forced himself to take up the only skill aside from killing that he knew.

The amulets and bracelets and earrings he created now paled in comparison to his past pieces. The Romans, to his mind, were too easily pleased, content to wear anything made of gold as long as it was studded with precious stones and could proclaim to the world the status of their wealth. Arrogant bastards.

Disgust roiled in his stomach as he counted down seven doorways to the rear entrance of Paulin Cornelius’ shop. He raised a fist and pounded on the door. The sooner he finished with the man, the sooner he could collect his payment. The sooner he could be on his way home.

“Wipe that scowl off your face,” hissed Menw, jostling into position in front of him, “or you’ll scare the man senseless—again.”

Bran sent a glare to the top of his clansman’s head, watched as Menw straightened his shoulders and smoothed the wrinkles from his tunic. All for appearance, which aggravated him beyond measure. Menw had decided with the first transaction that Bran needed to portray a man of means and that meant having a servant act as intermediary. It was not a matter of pride, Menw had insisted when he’d balked, but a matter of good business. Bran wasn’t fooled. Menw just wanted to insure his temper, sparked so easily, did not jeopardize the transaction.

Bran crossed his arms over his chest against his rising impatience and waited as Menw knocked again. He glanced down the narrow street. This area of Rome was not as crowded as the rest of the city, the wealthy preferring not to deal with the congestion. Most of the patricians traveled by sedan chair or litters borne on the shoulders of slaves. A few might deem to walk if the distance were not too far but never without a retinue of servants in their wake. The rest would simply send their slaves to conduct their business.

So the solitary figure moving in their direction did not raise his interest at first. A youth, he thought idly until he caught the subtle sway of feminine hips. A wonder that he’d noticed, dressed as she was in a long, brown
tunica
several sizes too big, the length of woven hemp tied round her waist doing little to keep the hem from dragging the dirt. His attention sharpened when she lifted the skirt to step over a large crack in the pavement affording him an enticing glimpse of slim ankle. His thoughts drifted to the delicate, sculpted features of the girl in the market. Beauty framed with curls of ebony.

Damnation, why did he keep thinking of the girl from the marketplace? It had been three days since his fleeting interaction with the beauty, if it could even be called that, yet she’d plagued his thoughts. During the day he’d been able to distract himself with his work, plying heated metal and setting stones to forget her smooth olive skin, those sweet, lush lips that had curved into a mischievous smile at the Roman matron’s hysterics, the laughter sparkling in beautiful violet eyes.

He’d found no relief in his dreams. When he wasn’t drowning in images of the carnage of the arena, he’d had erotic visions of this female in his bed. They were the most vivid images. In the depth of sleep he could feel her silky skin as he stroked the long line of her bare back, could hear her soft moans as his mouth crushed hers, as heat built in his loins. Both nights, just as his dream-self rolled her beneath him, he’d snapped awake, his cock hard, fighting a sense of profound loss as he found release with his own hand.

Bran shook his head but the image would not fade. She was just another Roman in a sea of the bastards, yet she’d stood out like a jewel in a bin of charcoal. Why, he could not say. Her
tunica
had been as drab as any plebian, her onyx dark hair plaited and tied with a scrap of rag. And as a sure sign of his impending insanity he could have sworn the scent of wildflowers and forest had wafted from her through the market stench. She’d met his bold perusal and had not withered beneath his attention like most Romans did, had in fact raised her chin in silent defiance. A gesture that even now sent a surge of heat through his loins.

A flash of brilliant red light obliterated his vision. His body reacted immediately; fists clenched, knees bent prepared to fight. In the space of a breath the brightness cleared and all he saw was Menw’s concerned frown.

He stared back at his clansman just for effect then rubbed at the tension in his neck. The unnatural lights were an unsettling aspect of his portion of the familial gift. As a child it had foretold of minor changes in his life such as his father deciding to take him on a hunting trip or his mother gifting him with an oatcake. As a gladiator, it had taken on a more sinister role, warning him of imminent danger. More than once it had saved him from a death blow in the arena.

Another flash. He spun around, searched for an enemy. There was only the girl. A worn veil, tattered along the edges, covered her head and shielded her features. She was young, the slender hand that reached down to pet a mongrel pup was smooth but she walked like an old woman, hunched over as if battling the cold of a fierce, north wind. He might have dismissed that save for the fact that the blasted sun beating down on his head it was hotter than his forge. The dog yipped playfully and rolled at her feet. Bran heard a very non-threatening giggle.

The door creaked open, drawing his attention for the space of a breath. When he turned back the girl had vanished. He scanned the alley with narrowed eyes. There were no more flashes. He shook his head in disgust. His blood had never adapted to the cursed heat of this world. Perhaps his brain had baked, sending him deeper into madness.

“Menw!”

A young man in a blue tunic stood in the open doorway. He wore a
tabellae
, a small rectangle of metal inscribed with his owner’s mark around his neck. “It is good to see you.” The smile faded from his face as he caught sight of Bran. He ducked his head in deference. “And your master, of course.”

Bran clenched his jaw. He despised the designation and if not for the fact that he’d have to put up with Menw’s endless chastisement for days afterward, he’d inform the boy in very clear terms that he was no one’s master. Yes, his clan had owned slaves, those who owed a debt or had the misfortune of losing a battle. They had been treated well. But he would never again own another human being. Not after the hell he’d endured.

“And you also, Strabo. My master has brought Paulin Cornelius the items he commissioned,” replied Menw in flawless Latin.

It was flawless because Menw spoke it often while Bran, despite being able to speak, understand and even read a bit of Latin, refused to foul his tongue any more than necessary with the hateful language. Not when the first words he’d learned had been
canis
,
servus
,
interficio
—
dog
,
slave
,
kill.

A relieved smile crossed the slave’s fatigued expession. “He will be very pleased.” He pulled the door open. “Come, come inside and I will announce you.”

Menw inclined his head and stepped aside to allow Bran to enter first. Bran rolled his eyes at the pretense then stilled, the flash in his head nearly obscuring the quick movement of shadow from the corner of his eye. Reflexes honed for survival brought his hand to the hilt of his knife as he spun around.

The street was still empty save for the stray dog who sat on his haunches watching him with lolling tongue and hopeful eyes.

“Sir?”

Bran looked at the jeweler’s slave and pressed his lips together in disgust as the man paled and shrank beneath his glare. Gods.

Menw frowned at him before schooling his expression into a placid mask and turning to the slave. “Your pardon, Strabo. My master has not been sleeping well, so eager was he to see these done. If you would be so kind as to take us to your master.”

Bran swallowed the growl churning deep in his throat. He just wanted to collect the coin due him and leave.

Strabo took them down a short corridor which opened into a spacious atrium. An archway on the left led to an elegantly appointed room where Paulin’s exclusive clients could consider his goods in private. Bran had never been invited there.

The one to the right led to a small shop front where clients of lesser status could purchase baubles of poor quality at inflated prices. Amazing that even the plebians, the most common of citizens, would use coin better used for food and shelter for such inferior trinkets. Strabo bypassed that hallway as well, which came as no surprise. Common Romans were as equally offended by heathens as the patricians.

They followed the slave through a modest
peristyle.
The open courtyard had the requisite flowers and shrubs but was dominated by statues of mythological beasts. As a craftsman, Bran could appreciate the skill it took to carve an intricate representation of a winged lion or a Centaur but balked at the cold, empty feel of the marble sculptures.