Barbarian's Soul: A Historical Romance

by Joan Kayse

  A tingle of sensation like bee stings streaked up his spine. His brows drew together and he looked closer at the girl. Her tunic was different, not as good a quality as the rest of Paulin’s slaves. Yes, they were slaves and undeserving of decent clothes in the eyes of society but the jeweler prided himself on appearances and clothed his servants in tunics simply made but of fine-woven fabric of dull blue.

  Instead her dress was gray woolen, the sandals on her feet were creased and worn in patches along the thin brown leather straps. A length of dingy cloth was wrapped around her head, knotted behind her neck and doing a poor job of keeping locks of black hair from curling at her nape. What color were her eyes, he wondered absently.

  Suddenly, her head snapped up, reminding him of a red deer who had scented a hunter. She spun around and looked straight at him. Violet. Her eyes were a deep shade of violet and set in the face that haunted him.

  Bran stared, an inexplicable joy rising in his chest followed by a sinking sensation. Somehow he’d managed to believe at the fringes of his mind that they might meet again. A ridiculous notion shown for its foolishness in the reality before him. She was a slave. She was owned by that wretch Paulin. Strabo’s voice shattered Bran’s keen disappointment.

  “Ah, here it is.” He unlocked the door and stood to one side.

  “Are you coming?” asked Menw beneath his breath, “Or are you going stand there gawking at that female like an untried youth? You’ve seen women before.”

  The glare he threw Menw had no effect on the man’s exasperated expression as he stood to the side for Bran to precede him into the makeshift reception room. Bran glanced back over his shoulder.

  She was gone.

  Menw risked his subservient demeanor with a roll of his eyes. Bran scowled and stalked into the room.

  “My master will be here momentarily,” said Strabo, positioning two stools next to a wooden table.

  Bran dropped onto the closest one and rubbed his eyes.

  “What ails you?”

  Bran cast a sideways glance at his clansman. “Nothing that a pouch full of gold will not cure.” At least he hoped so, else he thought he might be going mad. How else to explain two women appearing and disappearing like spirits? It had to be madness because he’d lost the ability to imagine long ago.

  He just needed to go home.

  Every fiber of his being yearned for Eire, had ever since waking with a blinding headache and an egg-sized lump on the back of his head, bound hand and foot in the bottom of an Ileni boat. He’d longed for the cool, sweet hills that surrounded his clan’s dun as he’d choked on the hot, dry sand of the Egyptian gladiator school. Through the beatings and lashings he’d kept fixed in his mind the clear, blue lakes, the barley fields ripe and ready to be harvested, the fatted cattle grazing in the pastures. With the crowd’s jeers ringing in his ears he’d envisioned finding Bryna, Menw, Gair, his other men, buying a curragh and sailing across the sea, seeing the cliffs of Eire shrouded in clouds. Free and safe.

  He shot a look through the small window of the room, disappointed to see the courtyard deserted. Those types of wishes had been every bit as useless to him then as the irrational one he held now to catch a glimpse of the violet-eyed beauty.

  “Perhaps you should abandon this business,” Menw said beneath his breath as he positioned himself at Bran’s back, “You’re as tense as a rat caught in an Egyptian cat’s paws.

  “I’ve seen an Egyptian caught in a lion’s paws,” replied Bran dryly. “He was well beyond tense.” He forced the horrific image of the mauled dead man from his mind.

  Menw snorted.

  Bran squared his shoulders. “This is the only way I have to earn coin.” He cast a challenging look up to Menw. “There are no farms to till, no stock to tend. The Romans have no need to pay for labor when there are slaves for every task.” He swung his gaze back to the table, his jaw clenched. “There is only one other skill I possess.”

  Gladiator.

  No matter that he could earn large amounts of silver doing it. Success for a gladiator could be measured in other ways than death. Victory in the arena brought monetary rewards as well, enticing some to continue to fight even after gaining a rudis, a wooden sword symbolizing their freedom. He might be reduced to eating dirt, but he would never return to that world.

  The sums were not large in Rome’s provinces and his master had reaped the larger portion when Bran had been actively competing. But in a thin attempt to appear more successful than he was, that rodent Hapu had allowed his gladiators to keep a small sum from each prize won.

  Bran had hoarded his, refused to spend it on wine and whores like the rest and when the sponsor of his final match—a provincial government official—had awarded him his freedom along with a sack of silver pieces he’d added that to his lockbox.

  A sharp ache pierced his chest as it did every time he thought of that last battle. So many lives had changed the day Beatrix had died. Reeling with shock and grief, he’d left the arena a free man to fulfill the promise he’d made his lover; to safeguard her children.

  As clear as if it had happened yesterday, he could see the grief, the confusion, the terror in three pairs of young eyes when Beatrix’s trainer had claimed they were his property. Bran had reminded him of his agreement with his champion gladiatrix and had changed the man’s mind at the tip of his sword.

  The three months that followed were a blur. Still searching for his sister, he’d stayed on at Hapu’s school, earning a meager wage for instructing the rest of the luda slaves on how to survive Rome’s brutal sport. Bran closed his eyes, remembering the rigorous training he’d put the men unfortunate enough to be purchased by the Egyptian through. They’d cursed him, challenged him but they’d also learned from him. When he’d left Alexandria, only one out of twenty had been lost to the mob’s bloodlust.

  But it had fed the children and provided them with shelter. Acting on a rumor of a barbarian slave owned by a local farmer, he located Menw and used over half of his scant resources to purchase his freedom. Living in Alexandria and providing for his expanded household had eaten a hole in the remainder. Even when he’d found Bryna he’d had to remain. How could he leave when she’d wed a Roman? Believing she would come to her senses, he’d followed her and her new husband to Rome where his expenses shot to the sky. Gods, the cost of food alone was triple what he’d paid in Egypt.

  Bran eyed the two girls who entered the room with a tray of coarse bread and goat’s cheese. Neither of them had ebony hair or any discernable spirit. They kept their eyes downcast like dutiful slaves even as they placed bronze chalices before them, filling them with inferior wine from a clay amphora. Bran snorted. Of course the jeweler would not waste a finer vintage on a barbarian.

  He took a long drink, welcomed the burn in his throat and waited for the wine to loosen the tight knot in his chest. Not too much, he thought as he took another smaller sip. He could not risk a slip in the rigid control that kept him from losing his mind. Two disappearing females in one afternoon had him worried that that control was slipping. “Where is the bastard?” he muttered.

  Menw sent him a sharp look. “It’s well you speak in Gaelic when you’re being exasperating. If our client overheard you, we could well lose the deal.”

  Bran pressed his lips together to keep more exasperation, more curses, from spilling out. Menw was correct. The coin garnered from this one transaction alone would be more than enough to reimburse Jared for the use of his ship. The ship that would take him home.

  And by Danu, he would go home.

  Chapter Four

  The man was going to be a problem.

  Adria peeked through the small window into the tiny room. The one-armed servant sat on the stool facing her, his eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep; she could see his lips moving. Praying, she was certain, for deliverance from his surly master.

  She shifted her focus back to the other man’s broad back. Their eyes had met only for the space of a breath before she’d slipp
ed behind the hedgerow. Even if she had not recognized that rugged, scowling, handsome face, the bolt of awareness that had shot through her core would have told her he was the man from the Forum.

  Was he a slave? She tilted her head and considered him. His tunic was a finer weave of linen, his boots a good grade of leather. He wore cuffs of beaten gold on his wrists and his demeanor was pure arrogance. No, he was no slave.

  He absolutely dominated the room, had dominated the street in front of Paulin’s domus. Power emanated from every movement, even in the way he sat on the stool, like a king on a throne.

  He folded his arms in a gesture of impatience, the cloth of his tunic stretching and molding against sculpted ridges along his ribs. Her gaze traveled down, pausing to appreciate the firm line of his buttocks, before moving onward to his legs. Long and well-formed they were braced apart, his feet planted as if he expected an attack. Adria rubbed at the clenched muscles of her belly.

  He nodded curtly to the slave who filled his cup. Adria saw the girl’s gaze flicker to his face in alarm and could just imagine the glowering expression she’d received. Had she not witnessed it herself only moments ago? The effect was no less frightening even coming from a ruggedly handsome man.

  Adria pulled back and leaned against the side of the building, checked to be certain the overgrown bush serving as her hiding place still concealed her presence. She’d known that stealing from the jeweler would not be an easy task. For the past three days she’d observed the pattern of activity at his shop—when the customers came, what duties the staff performed and where. Yesterday she’d managed to slip into the compound and determine the location of the merchant’s inventory. The majority of it was in a locked room on the other side of this storeroom. On the other side of that glowering, dark, man.

  Gods.

  She only needed a few select pieces. Something worth a significant sum. Something valuable enough to impress a master thief.

  Not for the first time since leaving the insulae, Adria questioned her actions. At the time, seeing the despair in Miriam’s eyes, knowing she had nowhere else to go, that she and her children might end up living on the street, her decision to obtain an expensive bauble to offer to Tiege had seemed her only recourse.

  Now the thought of stealing from a renowned jeweler like Paulin Cornelius seemed ludicrous. And Tiege accepting her bounty in return for a small percentage? Sheer madness. He did not suffer humiliation unless he was the one doling it out. The master thief would be out for blood.

  Adria held her breath as a duo of slaves passed by her hiding place. Fool a tiny voice whispered in her head, Tiege will take the merchandise and then slit your throat for your sheer audacity. A sinking sensation went through her at that raw truth.

  She released a shaky sigh. If she had any sense, she’d forget this whole scheme, find some other way to get the coin Miriam needed. Adria squirmed as the voice spoke again. How many baubles would it take to equal one of Paulin’s showpieces? This is no vegetable stand. You know you itch to do it. Only the best thief could be successful. Or are you frightened? She scoffed softly. Frightened? She could do this with her eyes closed.

  Adria stole another look at the imposing figure sitting at the table. Her instincts warned her that this man was more than a mere annoyance. The memory of how those fiery green eyes had bored into her sent a shiver up her spine.

  No Roman had eyes the color of emeralds and midnight hair falling in a silken curtain past broad shoulders. No citizen wore twin plaits from one temple, a barbaric symbol that brushed against an angled jaw that seemed carved from marble. With a straight nose any patrician would envy and firm lips, he was handsome in a wild, primal way that caused her heart to beat erratically. She swallowed hard.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

  Shifting so that the room was in full view without revealing her presence, Adria watched Paulin Cornelius enter from the direction of the treasure room. She tried to see around him but the jeweler was an imposing man as well. As broad as he was tall, his girth took up the entire width of the entry. He sported a circlet of gray hair around his head and his cheeks sagged into a set of jowls that jiggled with each step. Dressed in a red tunic of costly silk that fell well below his knees and wearing rings of gold on every finger, he stopped and waited impatiently for his slave, Strabo to position an ornate sedan chair behind him for his rather ample posterior.

  “My master is most appreciative of your time,” answered the one-armed servant. “He knows you are a busy man.”

  Adria didn’t think that was the case as the barbarian shifted imperceptibly, the muscles in his shoulders visibly tightening.

  Apparently, neither did Paulin. He looked down his bulbous nose at the man barely concealing his disdain when he spoke. “I am. My business has increased by tenfold in just the past few months.”

  “Indeed,” answered the barbarian. The deep timbre of his voice, despite being heavily accented, flowed over her like rich, heady wine. “My designs have been most popular.”

  It was a wonder that Paulin’s jaw did not crack from the forced smile he gave the man. “The pieces you have provided have done well,” he conceded with a sniff. “But my clientele are quite selective. They know where to come for quality goods.”

  The one armed servant shot his master a warning look which Adria found odd. Would the man not fear punishment for daring to chastise his master? Apparently not, as his glare flashed hot when his master spoke.

  “I know your profits have increased many times in the months you have traded my jewelry. All of Rome—” the man said the city’s name with a sneer –”knows of Paulin Cornelius and—” He paused and cocked his head. “—what is the word they use? Marvels that you can create authentic barbarian designs.”

  Paulin’s face reddened and he looked as if he might burst. “You have the commissioned piece?”

  The barbarian gave a curt nod. Adria leaned forward as the jewelers servant set a plain wooden coffer in the middle of the table between Paulin and the man. The servant raised the lid.

  The jeweler reached into the chest and lifted a necklace from its resting place. A small gasp of awe escaped her before Adria clapped her hand over her mouth and dropped below the window edge when the barbarian’s head snapped around in her direction. She held her breath for long moments before inching her way back to the window. Everyone’s attention, including hers, was focused on the necklace.

  It was beautiful. A large amethyst flanked by two silver half moons carved with intricate symbols that Adria longed to see up close. A teardrop of pure silver studded with small pearls dangled from the bottom of the gem. The moon shapes continued along delicate strands of silver woven into a collar and were interspersed with more amethysts and pearls.

  Adria’s stomach clenched with excitement.

  “Exquisite,” Paulin breathed. He laid the necklace aside and removed matching earrings and bracelets. A shaft of sunlight bounced off the silver making it sparkle. “Lady Valerius will be pleased.”

  “The cost of the raw materials was great.”

  The corner of Adria’s mouth quirked at the shrewd light that came to Paulin’s eyes. He carefully replaced the jewelry into the case. “Silver is not as costly as gold. And pearls are abundant.”

  “None matched as these,” answered the barbarian with what Adria thought sounded like a growl. “It was difficult finding those purple stones to meet your client’s demands.”

  “What my master means to say,” interjected the one-armed man, “is that a great amount of care and effort went into their creation. It is his finest work and he knows a man of standing such as yourself would compensate him accordingly.”

  Adria could see the smirk on Paulin’s face. Fairness was a rare thing when it came to Roman merchants, especially wealthy ones, but a spike of anger went through her at the knowledge the jeweler meant to cheat the man.

  “One hundred denarii.”

  The barbarian scoffed. “That does not pay t
he cost of the coal for my fire.”

  A look of agitation crossed the jeweler’s face before he composed it into a genial mask. “My friend, my friend. We have been trading for what? Nearly six months now? Have I not been honest and fair in my dealings?”

  The man and his servant said nothing. Paulin’s face colored. “I accepted your work when others would not and not without considerable risk to my reputation.”

  “Because I am a barbarian?”

  The question was posed with such calm that it sent a shiver through Adria. But Paulin did not appear to see the warning in it. He went on. “Yes. If the matter were to be spoken of with frankness. You know full well that many would not even consider purchasing anything from someone not of Rome.”

  The man leaned toward Paulin, strong, lean hands splayed on the table between them. Adria could see the harsh contours of the barbarian’s face. He was angry. “This barbarian and his barbaric pieces have lined your coffers well. This necklace, the earrings and the bracelets are of the finest quality. Five hundred aureus. No more. No less.”

  Five hundred aureus! Gods, that was a fortune. A mere fraction of that would be more than Miriam needed.

  Paulin looked stricken before he said with a sputter, “Five hundred aureus? You must be mad!”

  “My master, I am sure, would be willing to negotiate.” The barbarian’s servant held out his one hand in supplication.

  The barbarian crossed his arms and repeated. “Five. Hundred. Aureus.”

  Adria held her breath, watched Paulin struggle to contain his outrage beneath the man’s cold, determined stare. After several long minutes the jeweler raised his hand. “Strabo!”