by Joan Kayse
Paulin’s slave hurried forward, his head bent over folded hands. “Yes, master?”
“Bring my coffer.”
Strabo bowed and darted through the doorway.
“I agree to this only as a concession to our business relationship.”
The barbarian scoffed. “You do this because Lady Valerius will pay you twice the amount.”
Strabo, trying hard not to pant, returned with a large, iron-bound chest. With a loud exhalation he set it on the table.
His expression far from pleasant, Paulin produced a key from his belt and inserted it into the lock. Without looking at his slave, the jeweler motioned for him to hold open a leather pouch. Paulin reached into the strongbox and counted out the amount, one coin at a time. Adria’s mouth fell open at the mound of gold. Perhaps she could just take that and bypass Tiege altogether.
Her hopes for such an easy solution to her dilemma were dashed when Paulin snapped the lid closed.
The jeweler gave the pouch to Strabo, who handed it to the barbarian’s servant. “Our business is done. My slave will show you the way out.”
Again, the barbarian made a scoffing noise as the jeweler strode from the room. Strabo, his face a mix of apology and relief waited for them at the door. Adria’s relief equaled Strabo’s when the man and his servant followed, speaking to each other in a foreign tongue. From the sound of it, it appeared the servant was again chastising his master.
Adria shook her head and then stilled, her heart picking up its pace as she realized that the coffer with the necklace was still on the table.
Unlocked.
***
“I should throttle him just for the pleasure of it.”
“That would certainly enhance your reputation,” muttered Menw, tying another knot in the pouch’s cord.
“What do I care what a Roman thinks?” He glanced over his shoulder and scowled at the door which had slammed shut behind them. The wretch had already judged him on appearance alone, on his origins. What would he have thought if he’d known of his reputation as a gladiator? That he dealt with a man hailed by the crowds as interfactor anima, the killer of souls? “He thought I was too ignorant to understand the value in our trade.”
“Well, I’ll not argue that,” Menw said on a long sigh. “If Paulin had ever seen you haggle with the traders in Eire he’d have known he was fortunate to part with only five hundred aureus.”
Menw was right. In their homeland Bran would have been able to extol the fine craftsmanship, the labor involved and it would have been appreciated and respected. Those he’d traded with knew quality. He could easily have gotten half as much more. He blew out a tired breath. “Let us go, Menw. There is much to be done before we leave.”
They had only taken a few more steps down the street when the jeweler’s door flew open.
“Halt!”
Bran and Menw turned at the hysterical shout to see a nervous Strabo standing aside to allow a red faced Paulin through the door. The jeweler stomped toward them drawing, Bran noted, the avid attention of the few people in the street.
Paulin stopped in front of him, hands on hips. “I want it returned!”
“What do you want returned?” Bran asked gruffly.
“My jewelry. The pieces for which I just paid you an enormous amount.”
Bran raised a brow and exchanged confused looks with Menw. “I do not know of what you speak.”
Paulin scowled and ticked off the items on his fingers. “The necklace. The earrings. The bracelets. They are gone.”
Bran narrowed his gaze at the man. “I am no thief. You have the merchandise, not I.”
Paulin’s expression went cold. “What barbarian would not plunder where he could?”
Anger sizzled through Bran. He shrugged off Menw’s restraining hand and curled a hand around Paulin’s throat. “I am not a thief,” he said in a low, menacing voice. His honor may be in shreds but it was still there and by the gods he’d not listen to this prick malign it.
“Bran,” whispered Menw in Gaelic, “murdering a Roman, even an insignificant one such as this, is not worth the price you would pay. A dead man cannot go home.”
The red haze in his vision cleared faster than the handprint on Paulin’s neck. He pushed the man away and growled. “Do not lay the blame at my feet for your carelessness.”
“Then how do you explain their disappearance?” squeaked Paulin, rubbing his bruised neck.
“Perhaps they were misplaced,” offered Menw.
The color drained from Strabo’s face. His earlier solicitousness dissolved into self-preservation. “Impossible! We were gone from the room only moments. When I returned from seeing you out, the coffer was still there, the lid open and empty. I asked the slaves working in the garden if they had seen anything amiss.”
A shudder of knowing swept through Bran. Working in the garden? The girl who looked out of place. The girl in the street. Gods, he should have paid better attention to the warnings. Bran pushed past Paulin and headed for the jeweler’s house.
Servants scrambled out of the way as Bran strode toward the garden. He pushed aside the thought of how the real thief might suffer for the crime. It was a choice they—no, he thought grimly, she—had made. That it had been an ignorant one was not his concern. What was of import to him was keeping his money.
He bypassed the storeroom with its open door and walked straight to the cluster of bushes where he’d noticed the girl. Bending down, he reached beneath the shrub and pulled out a handful of wilted flowers. He searched the surrounding dirt, his gaze snagging on the delicate imprint of a foot.
It did not take a hunter’s skill to discern a trail and follow it to the rear of the storeroom building. There the crushed grass and snapped twigs beneath the lone window revealed where the thief had hidden. Raising his head, he had a clear view of the storeroom.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Paulin, hurrying to his side, Strabo and Menw in his wake.
“What other entrances are here?”
“What difference does that make?”
Bran leveled a hard glare at the Roman then turned his back on him. He barely registered the bluster coming from Paulin as he circled the bush and found a trail of flattened grass. There was no distinct pattern of steps which indicated the thief had abandoned stealth for a swift escape. His gaze followed the path to an overturned basket wedged against the back garden wall. The basket was still wobbling.
Bran sprinted to the wall, hoisted himself up on the flat top with his arms and looked down into a pair of startled amethyst eyes.
For a moment he felt as stunned as she looked. The memory of her beauty was nothing compared to the face that looked up at him now. It was symmetrical, like the facets of a well-cut jewel, with high cheekbones, a straight nose and a sharp little chin raised in defiance. Her complexion was soft and unblemished, an olive tone the perfect complement to the wisps of ebony curls that escaped the thick plait hanging down her back. Brows of the same color arched delicately over her eyes, the surprise he’d seen in them moments ago replaced by wariness, the emotions seeming to enhance the violet shade with sparks of light.
But it was her mouth that held his attention. Generous, full, with rose-tinted lips that needed kissing, and the desire to do just that slammed into his gut. That need spiked and his breath caught when she bit the bottom one and tugged on it with small, white teeth before...she stuck her tongue out at him.
Anger evaporated Bran’s lust at the utter gall of the little witch. He set his jaw against the urge to roar his outrage. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and held her gaze, daring her to move as he climbed onto the top of the wall.
As he lifted one leg over the edge, the girl stumbled backwards and dropped a tattered cloth bag in her hands. The sack opened, spilling silver and amethyst jewelry into the dirt.
Bran raised his other leg, took his time. Where would she go? She was outmatched and trapped, boxed in by Rome’s endless stone buildings. The mounting look
of fear on her delicate features gave him perverse satisfaction. He was not someone to be mocked as many of his opponents in the arena had discovered—just before they’d died at the end of his blade. And he did not take well to being robbed of his money or being accused of a crime he had not committed. That Paulin’s suspicions would have landed on him solely because he was a barbarian did not matter—the girl would pay the price.
He was sitting on the ledge now. One small leap and he would be towering over the girl. A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips as his intense perusal caused her breathing to increase. For a split moment, his gaze drifted to her breasts, pressed snug against the worn material of her tunic, the full, rounded mounds rising with each anxious breath. A fleeting thought went through his mind that they would fit perfectly in his cupped hands.
Then his vision caught up with his fantasies.
The girl had taken advantage of his momentary distraction and was frantically scooping the jewelry into her sack. Bran roared and leapt to the ground. The girl spared him one wide-eyed look before she sprinted off down the street, running like prey set in a hunter’s sights.
Bran broke into an easy lope. It should take no more than a half dozen steps to catch the little thief. His legs were twice as long and rage fueled his efforts. Fear was spurring hers, he thought with dark satisfaction when she glanced over her shoulder. And well it should. Still, she was no match for him.
The street was not long and branched off into two separate paths. The girl paused, took a quick look into the small alley to her right. It led to a bustling thoroughfare, the same one he and Menw had traveled. It was much more crowded than the exclusive enclave behind them. Foolish to think she could hide amongst the crowd. His instincts told him he’d be able to find her with his eyes closed.
Bran slowed his pace as she swung her gaze back to him. The challenge in her eyes amused him. He stopped an arm’s length away from her, mirrored her defiant stance with feet braced and fists on hips. She held her back stiff with pride and squared her shoulders, which thrust those enticing breasts outward. He took a deep breath against the tightening in his groin and held her gaze. He’d be damned if he’d be distracted again. Bran gave her his most intimidating glare. Instead of crumbling in abject terror, a smile tugged at her lips.
By Danu, the girl was mad. Was she so addled as not to realize that he had her trapped? There was no escape and in his present sour mood Bran could guarantee no mercy. No mercy as you ravage that mouth. His scowl deepened and he forced that wayward thought from his mind to focus on his quarry.
Her bravado drew his warrior’s respect and heightened his interest. She did not weep or beg. One hand clutched the sack and the other gripped the hilt of a knife she’d stuck in the belt at her waist. He almost laughed out loud. She truly thought she could harm him with a puny weapon such as that?
The blade she slid free was as long as his hand and well crafted. She turned it in her hand, the finely honed edge glinting in the meager sunlight. A flash of brilliant red crossed his vision and he fell into fighting stance, his hands curled into fists. In his head he heard the roar of the mob.
A look of confusion flitted across her face and snapped him out of his haze. Gods, for a moment he’d thought himself back in the arena. He’d smelled the blood, tasted the dry dust of the sand. If he’d had a gladius in his hand, the girl would be dead. He growled low in his throat and reached for the thief only to grasp air. Like a graceful dancer, the girl ducked, spun on her heel and dashed down the opposite alley away from the market.
Away from him.
Clever girl, Bran thought even as his fury pushed him to run faster. His legs could be as long as the Via Appia and he’d still have trouble catching her. With her slender form she maneuvered through the narrow, labyrinthine passages like Bryna’s demon cat, Cuini.
He grunted and cursed, managed to squeeze through a narrow gap between two buildings. The jagged stone of the building’s corner caught his tunic, ripping the material. He glanced at the blood seeping into edges of torn fabric and cursed. Not for the blood, for he’d bled far more than that in the arena, but for the ruination of clothes that had cost him coin. Raising his head he spied his quarry ahead. She stood with hands on knees, gasping for breath and staring at the solid stone wall blocking her way.
Bran wiped the sweat from his brow. Her game had ended. He tried to ignore the spark of admiration he felt at her determination to avoid capture. A brave effort but doomed from the outset. He never lost.
She turned at his approach, watched in silence as he closed the distance. Bran shook his head. The foolish girl still did not look frightened even as her fate was sealed.
For every step he took toward her, she took one backward until she was pressed into the corner of the wall. Her chin lifted again. Gods, she was stubborn and the flush of her efforts gave her beauty a loin-stirring glow. But even that would do her no good. Without a word, he held out his hand for the sack.
Irritation flashed like lightening in those exquisite eyes. Her hands clutched the sack tighter before she released a soft sigh. Head hung down, she held it out to him.
Bran had been watching, anticipated a trick and still it took him by surprise when she snatched it out of his reach and darted through another opening between the wall and a tenement.
Damn.
His reflexes were quick but hers were quicker. His fingers brushed the edge of her tunic as she disappeared through an opening too small for his bulk. He pressed his face to the gap, watched her reach the end and disappear like a wisp of smoke.
Bran slammed his hands against the stone. Damn the gods! It would take months to recreate those pieces, coin that he could not spare to purchase the materials. Add the fact that Jared had told him sailing after the Ides would be too dangerous and he’d be trapped in Rome another year.
Another year in hell.
The weight in his chest threatened to take him to his knees. There wasn’t enough wine in all of this cursed empire to drown his pain. He pushed away and stopped short, his gaze narrowing at an object lying on the ground next to the opening. Crouching down he picked up one of the earrings and brushed the dirt from it. The girl was a thief, he mused, studying the rich purple of the stone that reminded him of defiant violet eyes. And what did thieves do with their spoils?
Bran rose to his feet, the earring clenched in his fist. A thief was only successful if they got away with their treasure.
This thief would not.
Chapter Five
“Civilized people would be asleep at this hour.”
Bran stopped pacing, turned to look at his brother-in-law’s friend and raised one brow. With his disheveled hair, agitated state and burning glint in his eyes—not all of which, Bran guessed, was due to anger—Damon Primax wasn’t any more civilized than he. Of course, with a wife as beautiful as Julia Manulus he had sound reasons for loss of sleep.
A civilized man would also beg forgiveness for this middle-of-the-night visit but Bran vowed long ago to never beg anything from a Roman. He eyed Damon’s rumpled appearance. Even if it meant disrupting a night’s pleasure. He needed information, he needed it now and this Roman could provide it.
“A thousand pardons, master.” The plump doorkeeper, Basil, glowered at Bran through bleary eyes. “He would not leave until he’d spoken with you.”
Damon returned Bran’s regard with narrowed eyes. “Are you here to warn of an impending barbarian invasion?”
Bran answered with a derisive snort. The Roman’s irreverent attitude was grating, though he’d come to understand it was the man’s way of handling the misfortunes of his life. Damon had spent more years as a slave than Bran had and survived, though he’d nearly lost his life on the cross—twice. “I have need of your knowledge.”
The corner of Damon’s mouth twitched. “At last, someone who realizes my value.”
Bran set his jaw. If there were any other way to find out what he needed, Bran would take it, but he’d wasted too much time c
hasing the elusive thief. By the time he’d found his way out of the maze of alleys, discovered the hole through which she had exited, the shadows of the setting sun had obliterated any discernable tracks.
It wasn’t until he’d returned to Paulin’s and found that Menw had already returned the coin to the jeweler that the idea of seeking Damon Primax’s assistance crossed his mind. What would a thief, especially an apparent poor one, do with such expensive jewelry? And who in Rome would have this knowledge?
He leveled his gaze at Damon. “You are familiar with the city?”
Damon sighed and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “What Roman is not?”
There it was. That hint of Roman arrogance underlying Damon’s words even though he’d been shunned by his fellow citizens for years. Bran could almost hear Menw chiding him, telling him that not all Romans were supercilious. Suggesting, with a sharp glint in his eye, that perhaps Bran was seeing a reflection of his own pride. “I do not speak of the patrician world,” Bran answered, tamping down a spike of anger. “But of the other one, the poor and desperate side. I believe your Emperor would call them the mob?”
Something indefinable flashed behind Damon’s eyes. It reeked of danger and set Bran on guard. As fast as it came it was gone and a half-smile tugged at one side of the Roman’s mouth.
“The majority of plebians are hard working,” he replied slowly, “decent people rather than the mindless rabble so many of my new peers consider them to be.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly but he held Bran’s gaze. “Despite these prejudicial views, they are still citizens.”
Bran managed to suppress a snarl. As if that were some grand prize to be coveted. “They well may be Romans but some are thieves.”
Damon cocked a brow. “You’ve intruded into my home—in the middle of the night—to complain about some petty theft?”
He clenched and unclenched his fists, knowing it would not do well to throttle the man—not until he got his information. “The theft was not petty. It was of great import to me and to my household.” He was not the sort to explain himself, even before he’d been reduced to a slave, but Bran thought Damon might well understand what it was to have your life snatched away, knew the struggle of finding it again. Bryna had confided in him that Damon had spent the better part of his life as a slave to her husband, Jared, another handful of years working to reunite his family. He pressed his lips together. They called him barbarian when Damon’s own father—a Roman noble—had sold his entire family into servitude to save his own skin. “If you were a thief and had property of great value, what would you do with it?”