Barbarian's Soul: A Historical Romance

by Joan Kayse

  “Got ya a good piece for the night, eh barbarian?”

  Adria peered in the direction of the slurred voice. Three filthy men, well past drunk, leaned against each other outside of a taverna. While one of them roared with laughter at his friend’s wine-induced observation, the third glared malevolently at them.

  “Damn foreignurrr,” he slurred, spitting in the ground as they passed. “Think your cock is worthy enough for our women.”

  The barbarian paused but kept his grip firm as he swung and stared at the men. Adria braced herself against his back. She could not see his expression from her vantage point but beneath her, she felt tension beneath the muscles of his broad back. Adria readied herself. He’d have to put her down to fight the troublemaker, and he would fight. That’s what barbarians and gladiators did. Wasn’t it?

  That hope plummeted to lie with the pieces of her other grand schemes when instead, he spun on his heel and resumed walking. Adria dropped her head and tried to ignore the scent of leather and spicy musk that assailed her nose. A curling heat flared low in her belly.

  A new fear engulfed her as he made a sharp turn at the bottom of the hill. Her orientation was shaky given she was hanging upside down like a bat beneath an eave but there was no mistaking they were leaving the district. Her district. Her home. She renewed her struggle, desperation giving her a new strength. “Put me down!”

  His only response was a firm swat on her bottom.

  Adria shrieked her outrage, beat her fists against his back, slapped at his arms but none of it slowed his pace. Her stomach ached, her head throbbed. Every step was taking her farther away from the life she knew to—where? Would he turn her in to the authorities? See her scourged—or worse—sentenced to die? A chill went through her. Seek his own punishment? Gods.

  She gasped when he came to an abrupt halt, leaving her teetering for a long moment. Loosening his grip he leaned forward, shifted her weight, and allowed her to slide down his length to the ground. It seemed to take forever for her feet to reach pavement. Every curve of her body seemed to touch every hard plane of his; his chest, his thigh—gods even his neck when she wrapped her arms around the strong column to ease her descent. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment when the friction caused her nipples to tighten into aching buds.

  Adria shot a look to his face and saw with horror that he was staring at her chest where those tips strained against the thin cloth of her tunic. She tried to pull free, determined not to give into panic when he would not allow it, keeping his arms locked tight round her. “Release me.” It came out as a whispered plea rather than the curt demand she’d intended.

  The corner of his mouth lifted into a mocking half-smile that grated her temper. “And where would you go, thief?”

  It didn’t matter as long as it was far away from him. Adria pushed against his chest. “That is no concern of yours. I am a freewoman and answer to no one. You have no right to hold me.”

  “No?” he drawled, ignoring her gasp as he snatched the bag of coins from her grasp. “I could summon the authorities or perhaps that citizen, Tiege, you named him? He seemed eager for your company.” He canted his head, the unspoken speculation in those emerald eyes setting her teeth on edge. “Perhaps you would rather return to him?”

  Adria glared at him. He was toying with her, taking pleasure in the fear that prospect elicited. And as much as she loathed it, it elicited a great deal of fear. “You have your jewels,” she countered in a clipped tone. “Return my money and I’ll trouble you no more.”

  “Ah, there is the problem, is it not?” he answered with a tight smile. “You have already caused me much trouble. Stolen from me. Blackened my reputation. Wasted my time.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that as a barbarian his reputation was fully intact. He was behaving like an arrogant brute with the manners of a pig. But the meager light from the taverna’s torch enhanced his implacable features, lending them a sinister edge. Anger still simmered in his eyes and that muscle still ticked in his jaw. She clamped her mouth shut.

  Beg his forgiveness.

  Adria was aghast at the thought. She’d never groveled for anything in her life. Even if reason would have shown her it was key to survival, her pride would have refused. “You have your property back,” she repeated flatly. “I am of no further use to you.”

  He raised one brow and the tight smile he gave her sent the anxiety in her gut spiraling back into raw fear.

  The soft tone of his voice belied the iron beneath it. “You think not? Menw?”

  She tore her gaze from his and watched as a shadow separated from the side of the building. A lean man with one arm and tousled brown hair looked first at her then at her captor with a disapproving expression.

  “Bran, what is this?” the shadow asked in the same strange accent.

  Bran. The barbarian had a name.

  “This is the thief who has been the thorn in my side since yester eve.”

  The man Menw cast her a skeptical look. “Thief? She is nothing more than a child.”

  “I am no child,” Adria protested, “I am a freewoman who is being held prisoner by this...this heathen.” Neither man flinched at the barb but she caught a flash of disappointment in Menw’s expression.

  “She is a thief,” repeated Bran, his glare so intense Adria wondered if the word had been branded on her forehead. He glanced at Menw. “Have you spoken with the Roman?”

  Menw nodded slowly, shifting his gaze between them. “Yes, though he is of a mind to abandon the agreement and take the loss.”

  “You convinced him otherwise?”

  “Yes,” Menw sighed. “I used his own greed against him. He covets the client and her deep coffers more than teaching an upstart foreigner a lesson. But he gives us only until the morning to return with the pieces. If we do not, he says he will alert the authorities and see us pay for our deception.”

  “We have them,” answered Bran. Keeping his gaze locked on Adria’s, he handed the sack with the jewelry to his servant.

  Menw peered into it. “One of the earrings is missing.”

  Bran muttered beneath his breath in the language Adria did not understand, but it took no knowledge of it to know it was a curse. It took everything in her not to shrink beneath his heated gaze. Beg his forgiveness, that wretched inner voice pleaded again. Her temper squelched it. By the gods, she would not. Because of him, she’d lost her sack of coins. This lone earring would bring some small recompense for the night’s misery. Enough to aid Miriam and her children, perhaps enough, she thought ruefully, for her to find refuge from Tiege. She lifted her chin in silent challenge as his eyes narrowed.

  Adria gasped when he began to pat her waist with his large hands, gliding along her hips to the hem of her tunic where his calloused fingers brushed against her calves.

  The weight of the pouch against her chest felt like a boulder against the rapid beat of her heart. What would she do if he found the earring? What would he do? An image of the way he’d fought, the men he’d killed flashed through her mind. Gods.

  Her breath caught in her throat as he skimmed his hands up her torso, his palms lingering along the swell of her breasts, which tightened in anticipation. Adria gave herself a mental shake. She bristled at the intimacy of the search, tried without success to slap his hands away.

  Only one other male had ever touched her, the fuller’s son. An untried youth, he’d wooed her foolish girl’s heart into believing he loved her and would make her his wife. He’d taken her innocence in a clumsy tryst and left her with nothing more than empty promises. She cast a wary look at Bran. This man would make no promises. He would simply take.

  Those glittering eyes caught her gaze and held it for what seemed an eternity before his mouth curved into a sardonic smile. For a brief moment, Adria knew that were he to smile with humor instead of menace a woman could find herself lost in it. Distracted by the thought she was unprepared when his hand dipped beneath the neck of her tunic and plucked th
e pouch free.

  She gasped aloud with equal parts humiliation and anger but refused to lower her gaze as he broke the cord and tossed the small bag to Menw. The one-armed man caught it easily, and with remarkable nimbleness opened it. He raised his head and nodded to Bran.

  “And only an hour before sunrise,” Bran muttered.

  A sudden, bone-deep fatigue tugged at Adria. She wished she could give into it, fall into a deep sleep and awaken on her pallet in Miriam’s apartment to find the entire debacle had been nothing more than a horrid dream. She glanced up at Bran’s stony expression. So much for wishes.

  Adria squirmed in his hold. “You have what you wanted. Now let me go.”

  Bran’s only response was another darkly amused look. He wrapped his hand around one of her wrists, indicated with a nod of his head for Menw to follow and started walking toward the Campus Martins.

  She guessed his answer was no.

  The shadows were lightening to predawn gray as they approached Paulin’s establishment. Adria swallowed hard against the fear creeping up her throat. The barbarian was going to gain his revenge. He was going to expose her as the thief to the jeweler who would then have her arrested. An image of herself bound to a post writhing beneath the lash caused her to stumble. Bran growled, not bothering to slow his steps until she’d regained her footing.

  Menw walked alongside her, though with his long legs he could easily have kept abreast of his master. Every few steps he would give her a look that wavered between curiosity and pity. Adria ground her teeth together. She did not want his pity. Sympathy was a useless emotion. It did not keep you safe as a twelve-year-old orphan, nor did it put food in your belly or help you survive the streets of Rome.

  It also did not save you from rogue barbarians.

  Bran stopped a few paces from Paulin’s door and glanced at the pale, dawn sky. “Woman, you’d best hope that the jeweler is still abed.”

  No, she hoped the jeweler was not home at all, but yet again, her wishes were dashed to the ground when a visibly frightened slave opened the door at Menw’s knock.

  “Menw!” the slave said with relief. “You’ve returned!”

  And not a moment too soon if the purple bruises visible along his arms were any indication.

  “Yes, Strabo,” answered Menw. “We have recovered the pieces.”

  Bran tugged her closer against his side drawing the slave’s curious attention. Adria fumed at the possessive gesture. The poor boy in front of her was a slave, chattel in the eyes of the law. She was not and she resented the implication his actions caused.

  Strabo opened the door wider and gestured them inside. Adria managed to keep up with Bran’s long strides, determined to appear as though she were here of her own accord rather than carted along like a sack of cabbages.

  They passed through the inner courtyard, the same one she’d slipped into the day before. The same slaves who yesterday had been too absorbed in their drudgery to notice a strange girl in their midst, did so now. They cast furtive glances at her from bowed heads and she noted the two girls who’d been in the garden with her whispering together. They weren’t talking about her, but Bran. Why their appreciative looks should irritate her made no sense to Adria, but they stopped at her pointed glower.

  “Please, wait here,” instructed Strabo as he showed them into the same tiny room. Bran pushed her down onto the lone stool, taking up a defensive stance behind it while Menw stood calmly beside his master. Of course they would be calm, she thought, they weren’t about to be arrested and tortured.

  It seemed an eternity before Paulin returned with his slave. The jeweler’s expression was as dark as the black silk robe he wore. He raked the two men with a disdainful look before settling on Adria. A tight knot of dread settled in her stomach at the flare of lust in his eyes.

  Two slaves appeared with his heavy wooden chair. Paulin sat down, snapping his fingers. Two more slave girls rushed forward, dark circles reflecting their fatigue. One held a tray with a goblet, the other a silver pitcher of water. The vessel was silently and efficiently filled and presented to Paulin. Adria licked her dry lips as the jeweler took a long drink.

  “My time is valuable,” he said, “and I am not amused that it has been wasted by your treachery.”

  Adria felt Bran tense behind her. But Menw was the one to answer.

  “Honored one, there was no treachery, certainly not on the part of my master. An unfortunate turn of events, I grant you, but there was no duplicity.”

  Paulin grunted his doubt. He selected a fig from a tray offered by a third slave girl and considered them for a long moment. Adria did not trust him. There were too many of his kind in Rome; self-serving and manipulative, reaping the most benefit from any situation no matter the cost to others. He might wear fine clothes, but he was no different than Tiege. She sent a sideways glance to Menw, the essence of patience. Paulin had already attempted to cheat them with his inadequate offer for the jewelry. This added inconvenience tilted the scales of the deal to his side.

  “Who is the girl?”

  The question caught Adria off guard. Why the sudden focus on her? Paulin sucked on the fruit, openly leered at her. Despite the heat of the morning she wished fervently for a cloak. Instead, she gripped the sides of the chair to keep from shielding herself. She would not add to his power by showing her discomfort.

  “She was not with you on your last visit.”

  She held her breath, waited for Bran to accuse her. “This...” Bran paused.

  Adria straightened her shoulders. Do it, she wanted to scream, condemn me. Punish me for doing what I must to survive. A wash of tears stung her eyes but she blinked them away, refusing to show any weakness. As if he sensed her distress, the barbarian grasped her shoulder with one hand. She shrugged him off, gritted her teeth in anger when he replaced it with a firm squeeze. She would fight, she would not go to the slaughter like a meek lamb.

  Bran released a slow breath which sounded angry and irritated at the same time. “This girl is the one who found your jewelry. She returned the pieces to my servant.”

  Adria snapped shut her mouth which had dropped open. What was he doing? She dared a glance over her shoulder. Bran did not look like a man with scruples or compassion. While his expression was a careful mask of indifference she sensed an underlying emotion that she wasn’t certain she wanted to identify.

  Paulin gave a short laugh, filled for all its brevity with scorn. “This gutter trash found these gems? And returned them?”

  Adria chafed at the insult. She took Bran’s warning when he squeezed her shoulder again but forced her gaze to remain on the jeweler. Arrogant bastard.

  “Yes,” Bran answered. “That is what I am telling you.”

  Gods, the jeweler must hold a death wish, Adria thought, to risk calling Bran a liar.

  Paulin raked the three of them with a skeptical look. After a moment’s consideration he snapped his fingers. Strabo hurried forward and took the bag from Menw. The slave opened it and laid the necklace, earrings and bracelets on the table.

  Adria was struck again at the beauty of the jewelry. So simple, yet so elegant. Any woman would feel like a queen adorned with such finery. Perhaps even gutter trash.

  Paulin leaned back and folded his hands over his chest. “I’m eager to return to my bed and get this business behind me. Strabo, bring my coffer.”

  The slave, attuned to his master and eager to avoid further abuse had already anticipated his request and set the chest on the table. Paulin drew out a large key from beneath his sleeping robe, a match to the new lock securing the chest. He emptied a pouch into his hand and began to count. “Three-hundred-and-fifty aureus.”

  Menw inhaled sharply, but it was the anger emanating from Bran that drew Adria’s attention. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, waited for him to explode into a rage.

  But when he spoke Bran’s voice was just as even as before, though it held a layer of warning a deaf man could hear. “The price i
s five hundred aureus.”

  A sly smile curled Paulin’s lip. “Ah, yes but that was before the unfortunate events of yesterday. It was quite terrifying to have been robbed and to have the mutual respect and regard of a fellow tradesman brought into question.”

  “Mutual respect?” Bran spat out. “When has a Roman respected anyone other than his own reflection?”

  “Bran,” Menw warned in a low voice.

  Bran cut off his servant with a sharp word in his foreign tongue. Adria saw the resignation as well as the stung pride in the other man’s sad eyes.

  “Our agreement was for five hundred aureus, for the commissioned pieces you requested for the valued client who will pay you twice the amount.”

  “They are used goods,” replied Paulin smoothly. “Thus, their value is depreciated. However, I am not an unreasonable man.” Adria’s chest tightened as the jeweler leaned toward them. “Give me the girl and I will give you the full amount.”

  Chapter Seven

  The squeal of the pig barely registered with Bran as he strode into the path of a cart carrying the unfortunate swine to the butcher’s market. The donkey pulling the cart brayed and kicked its hind legs in a fit of temper as the irate driver attempted to regain control and implored his gods to bring a curse on Bran’s head.

  Too late for that, he thought darkly. The gods were entertaining themselves quite nicely without the invocation.

  Continuing down the lane, his thoughts tumbled in a storm cloud of anger. In one hand he held a sack of three-hundred-and-fifty aureus. In the other, the source of his current black mood; a slip of a girl with the curves of a woman and amethyst eyes, eyes sparking with temper and boring a hole into the back of his skull.

  He’d lost his mind, Bran decided. Two years of fighting in the arena, living in chains, enduring a degradation so complete that at one time the protesting donkey would have been worth more in the Roman world than he, a slave. Through it all, he’d managed to hold onto a sliver of sanity only to lose it to a mere female.