by Joan Kayse
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
Curse 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 desperat
ion on anyone. Which is why she’d agreed to help Mili.
The little girl had come to Adria and told her about her ill grandmother. The woman had a lingering case of ague and was not eating. The old woman had mentioned to her young granddaughter that oranges would taste like ambrosia to her and so the child had sought Adria out. Please, the doe-eyed child had implored. Could Adria please get her grandmother an orange?
Of course, she could.
Adria blew out a breath. Even if the child hadn’t offered her a precious bronze quadran in payment—which she had refused—she would have done it. Mili’s grandmother cared for the child, protected the little girl from the ugliness of the streets—a task she could not do if she were infirm or worse, dead. Your tender heart will bring you trouble. Adria brushed her foster mother Miriam’s admonition away. Perhaps, but seeing Mili kept safe was worth a bit of risk.
Lost in her thoughts it took Adria a moment to realize that the noise of the fight had faded. Thank the gods. She wanted to finish before the concealing crowds thinned out for the day. Keeping her manner casual, she stepped out only to retreat back to the shelter of the column.
The men were indeed no longer fighting, though from the way they were sneering at each other it was clear the quarrel was not settled. The disputed fish lay in a gray lump in the dirt at their feet. As one, they shot hot glares to the source of the interruption.
It was a man; not uncommon of course but this one stood out apart from the crowd of people. His presence filled this one small corner of the marketplace, his stance straight and confident, his scowl fierce and so full of threat that the brawlers shrank back—as did many of the bystanders.
Concealed as she was, Adria openly studied the intruder. Her gaze traced the broad line of his shoulders, trailed down the wide expanse of his back to a trim waist circled with a stained leather belt. His tunic of plain brown wool ended mid-thigh, which still afforded her a fine view of legs as well-muscled as the bared arms that hung loose at his side. She noted his right hand opening and closing into a fist and knew from his broad stance that he was prepared for a battle.
What a foolish thing for a foreigner to consider and he was a foreigner. A well-bred Roman citizen would rather leap from the Tarpeian rock than see his hair falling down his back uncontained. Oddly appealing though, much like a curtain of black silk. What, she wondered, would it feel like to run her hand along its length?
It would feel like suicide because the predatory menace emanating from the stranger would see her dead if she dared move one finger in his direction.
The cluttered mass of shoppers who’d stopped at the altercation still kept their distance, but began to stir even as they kept wary eyes on the man. It was as if he were an island in the midst of a sea of people, a sea churning with disdain, disgust and blatant hostility. Adria chewed her lip and frowned. Such a strong reaction to the outsider. True, most Romans considered themselves far above those unfortunate enough to be born outside of the Empire, but the city was filled with people from different lands, both slave and free. Why such scorn for this one?
A Roman matron, standing on the opposite side of the column made a disgruntled noise and muttered beneath her breath. “Barbarian filth.”
The man’s head whipped around and Adria felt as if she’d been struck by a stone. Gods, he was striking. It wasn’t the fine beauty of his features that stunned her, though the harsh angles of his god’s face, straight nose and firm mouth could stir a blind woman to swoon, but his eyes—she’d never seen eyes the color of emeralds. They glittered now with challenge so strong that she took an involuntary step backwards.
He scanned the clusters of people on either side of her hiding place, but passed over Adria, which left her relieved but no less fascinated. She noted a pair of thin braids swinging from his left temple which added credence to the woman’s designation of barbarian. A muscle worked in his clenched jaw which hardened all the more when his gaze locked on the woman who had spoken. Adria peeked from the shadows and saw the color drain from the matron’s face, heard her sharp intake of frightened breath. For one long moment the man stared, the power of his contempt surpassing any that had been aimed at him.
He said nothing. Did nothing. Yet the woman stumbled backwards into the arms of her startled servant, who just managed to keep her from tumbling to the ground. Adria’s lips twitched as the woman floundered in her attempts to gain her feet. Several concerned bystanders rushed to her aid which only increased her hysterics. With an aggrieved look, the servant helped her settle onto an outdoor bench next to the wine shop.
Adria shook her head, unable to contain her smile. Gods, you’d think she’d been attacked by the three-headed Cerberus the way she carried on. Adria turned from the cluster of people surrounding the moaning woman and lifted her head, her gaze snared and held by those glittering-jewel eyes.
The man still did not move, and neither did Adria. He did not change his stony expression but watched her with an unearthly calm. He meant to intimidate, which Adria refused to allow. She raised her chin and returned his scrutiny, fighting down the urge to ask what it was he found so interesting. Even as the thought passed through her mind, he cocked his head and scanned her body from head to foot and back again, lingering a beat too long on her breasts.
Adria fought the urge to cover herself, trembled with outrage and awareness, warmth spreading through her body with his bold perusal. Reflexively, she pressed one hand against her belly in a vain attempt to ease the knot of heat that had kindled there. He ended his inspection by once again holding her gaze, raising one winged brow, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to be called a sneer.
Adria’s gasp was lost in the noise of the market. The arrogant ass!
“A hex, the heathen put a hex on me,” moaned the patrician woman, accepting a second cup of wine from the shopkeeper, her demeanor less frightened than eager. Adria rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the man, only to see his broad back as he strode down the street.
Adria cursed as she realized she was craning her neck to see where he’d gone. His path had been swallowed by the crowd who were once again milling about the market. Disconcerted and not liking it one bit, Adria pushed all thoughts of the foreigner from her mind and returned her focus to the fruit stand.
Nasim, the produce vendor, sent a rotten-toothed smile over his shoulder at his stall guardian, chuckling when the monkey slapped the hand of a man trying to gauge the ripeness of a melon. Adria stifled her own laugh at the look on Nasim’s face when he realized the man was a paying customer. He rushed over and pulled the creature away by its leash, securing it to a hook in the stone wall behind the stall and began offering profuse apologies to the offended man.
Ah, distraction. A gift to any thief.
Flipping her plait behind her, she slipped from her observation point and strolled casually toward the opposite side of the wooden booth. Nasim and his monkey were both chattering away at the customer who seemed to enjoy the groveling and was currently considering the merchant’s offer of a free head of cabbage for his trouble. Keeping one eye on the trio, Adria opened the coarse cloth bag slung over her shoulder and began to fill it with fruit.
The howling squeal nearly deafened her.
For one long moment, her vision tunneled to wide open mouth and bared fangs. Spraying saliva, face twisted in fury the creature was lunging at her, pulling at the leash which suddenly seemed too flimsy to keep the snarling beast away from her fingers which were frozen, curled around a plump orange. Nasim’s shrill voice pierced through the daze.
“Thief!”
Adria’s senses snapped back into place. She snatched one more orange and crammed it into the sack, spared a look at the vendor who was stumbling toward her, eyes bulging and mouth twisted in rage. Put a purple vest on him and he’d look like his monkey.
“Thief!” he shouted again.
Between Nasim’s cry’s and the wretched monkey’s infernal squalling, a crowd had thickened around the stand e
recting an immovable wall of humanity that blocked her escape.
This was a problem.
Adria pushed back against the sagging belly of a large woman, rolled along her girth in an effort to squeeze through the throng. Instead she was shuffled closer to the stand.
“Street rat! Thief!”
Nasim’s glare pinned Adria.
A shiver of fear combined with a rush of nerves urged her to action. Punishment for thieves ran the gamut from prison, to public floggings, enslavement or, Adria swallowed hard, death. In all the years she’d survived on contributions from Rome’s merchants, she’d never been caught and she had no intention of beginning now.
“Yes, thief,” Adria repeated spinning around. She grabbed an unsuspecting bystander by the sleeve. “There is a thief! Catch him!”
“I...um, I don’t know...” the man stuttered.
“There!” she said, cradling the bulging sack to her side, muttering a curse when one of the precious oranges rolled out and was trampled by a big-footed boy. She pointed across the market with her free hand. “Isn’t that him?”
The man’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Yes! I see him! Over there!”
The people close to the man took up his cry and surged in the direction of the false suspect providing a spacious opening. Adria glanced over her shoulder, her lips twitching at the look of utter disbelief on Nasim’s face. Unable to resist, she pulled out an orange and held it up in silent salute before she turned and disappeared into the crowd.
In moments, the din of the market faded away but Adria did not slow. She knew the streets, knew every alleyway, every building and crevice suitable for concealment. It was knowledge essential to survival. She used it now, weaving a convoluted path until she reached a favorite refuge behind the crumbled stone wall of an abandoned bakery.
She closed her eyes and focused on slowing her breathing. It wasn’t entirely fear that had her so shaken but heart racing exhilaration. It was foolish, she knew, to feel such a thrill at using her wits and skill in the face of very real danger. Prideful, is what those who knew her would say and she would not be able to argue against it. She was very proud that she had never been caught. She glanced at the fruit in her lap and smiled. She was still the best thief on the Aventine.