by Joan Kayse
Adria laughed again. Bran growled and tossed the iron tongs in his hand onto the table. What did she find so humorous? She was his prisoner. She lived in Rome, by the gods! He stalked to the door and leaned against the frame, careful to remain in the shadows just as he had the half-dozen other times he’d spied on Adria since she and the children had ventured outdoors.
The two little hellions seemed as content as that troublesome kitten of theirs after a meal of warm milk. Well, Cyma was at any rate. Julian, practicing at a distance with his play sword, was plainly resisting the pull of the enemy. Good boy!
The smug satisfaction he’d felt leaving Adria with the two wildlings this morning had whetted his appetite for retribution. He’d read the sheer terror in her eyes, the lack of confidence—an unfamiliar feeling for the girl, he suspected. He’d fully expected to find the little thief trussed up like a quail waiting for the spit by the noon meal. He’d not noticed the quiet at first. When it had lasted, without one scream or screech for longer than an hour he’d considered rescuing Adria if only to enjoy her fury that a barbarian would come to her aid.
He’d tried to lose himself in his craft, tried to forget how she’d felt in his arms—soft and warm, a heady sensation for a man, a slave, so used to the cold. But it hadn’t worked. Now instead of three necklaces and a bracelet he’d promised Jared in trade, he had a handful of wire, two chipped rubies and three burned fingers.
Another sin to hold against her, he thought as he watched Adria kneel beside Cyma and point to the ground. He narrowed his eyes as he realized that her attention was not solely focused on the little girl. She was scanning the enclosure. Looking for what? A ridiculous question. He knew good and well she was searching for a way out. Foolish girl. Foolish woman, he amended when she raised up beside Cyma and arched her back. Even from a distance the outline of her full breasts caused heat to flicker in his blood.
Bran tensed when she paused mid-stretch, her gaze locked on the stable door. He was well-concealed. She could not know he was there—hiding, he thought in disgust. But then he noticed her rubbing her arms in a nervous gesture. He crossed his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips and continued to watch.
***
Adria shivered and wrapped her arms around her waist. There was no reason for her to feel a chill, not with the sun well past its midpoint, but a cold tingle had skittered down her spine like a shard of ice. If she were in the streets she’d have ducked for cover and drawn her knife.
She sent a suspicious look to the dilapidated stable in the far corner. Several times she’d heard faint hammering sounds, muttered curses. Was it Bran? He’d departed from the same entry into the garden but she’d assumed, she’d hoped, he had left through the back gate. She could breathe easier with him gone, unlike this morning. Gods, why was she dwelling upon that unfortunate event? Yet her heart jumped at the memory of his strong arms encircling her, holding her close, protected, safe. Nestled in his embrace she’d known there was no other place she’d rather be.
Adria shivered again. It was frightening, losing your mind.
She was still contemplating the stable when an irate bleating noise sounded from the building.
“It’s just Cyclops,” Julian snickered at her raised brows. “Our she-goat. Cyma is a baby and needs her milk.”
“You drink it, too!” Cyma snapped. Adria was beginning to recognize that warning gleam in the girl’s eye—and this time she had a sharp, pointy spike in her hand.
“Never mind, Cyma,” she soothed, positioning herself between the siblings. “Stay to your task. Now write your name.”
Cyma was quickly picking up the rudiments of the Latin alphabet. With the tip of her tongue peeking out from between pursed lips, the little girl laboriously pressed her name in the clay. Cyma clapped her hands. “I did it! Adria! I spelled my name!”
Adria gave her a quick hug. “You did indeed, Mistress Cyma.”
Adria smiled as the little girl sat back on her heels and admired her work. It annoyed her to admit it but she was enjoying herself, the solitude of the day, the break from the constant alertness and tension that marked her life in the streets. Menw had returned from the market, avoided her accusing glare and set about roasting the pork hind he’d purchased. Linus had also returned long enough to grab a loaf of bread, snarl at her and the children like a mad dog before dashing back out. He’d obviously inherited his father’s penchant for foul moods.
Still, there was a semblance of normality that drew her, even if it was overshadowed by the brooding master of the house.
She glanced down and smiled when she realized Cyma had spelled her brother’s name. “That is very good.”
Her face glowing at Adria’s praise, Cyma spoke to her brother. “Don’t you want to learn lessons?”
“Not me,” huffed Julian, pretending to polish his sword. There was an air of caution about the boy, his scowling expression unable to conceal the curiosity and longing in his eyes. “I don’t need to learn to read or write. I’m going to be a famous gladiator like my mother.”
Adria chuckled, kneeling beside Cyma. “You mean like your father.”
“Oh, he doesn’t know who his father is,” replied Cyma, carving a swirl beneath the letters of her name.
A stricken look crossed Julian’s young face before he twisted his features into a scowl that failed to hide the pain in his eyes. “Neither do you,” he shot back.
Adria shifted her gaze to the boy, his wooden sword once again raised for battle. “I thought the barbar—” She cleared her throat. “Bran was your father.”
Cyma gave a wistful sigh as she scratched out a flower in the clay. “No, he was just our mother’s friend.”
Adria sat back on her heels. Friend? It was difficult to imagine Bran as anyone’s friend. “Your mother,” she began, “fought in the arena?” She searched her memory. What were they called? “She was a gladiatrix?”
“Their mother was a brave and courageous woman.”
Adria jumped at the deep timbre of Bran’s accented voice. His words flowed over her like a river of molten lava, both warm and able to destroy. She splayed her hand over her stomach.
Cyma looked up and past Adria’s shoulder to where she knew Bran stood and in a soft voice said, “I miss my mama.”
Adria’s heart clutched at the grief on the little girl’s face, a look that threatened that hidden spot where she had locked away her own pain. She glanced at Julian, which was the wrong choice as her ache deepened when he surreptitiously wiped his eyes with the palm of his grubby hand.
Bran stepped around Adria and her pulse quickened. She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat as she looked at his bare, muscled legs, sprinkled with crisp, coarse black hair. She trailed her gaze upward. His hair was tied at the nape of his neck save for the two braids that swung from his temple. Clean, strong lines lent his face a patrician look—squared jaw, straight nose, firm lips, the regal angle of his head.
Regal? He looked no different than any plebian in the market, she assured herself. Streaks of dirt marred his clothing, clothing for all its plainness of higher quality than most, but still that of the working class. His hands and arms were equally smudged with black soot. A fine sheen of sweat covered his throat, darkened the neck and sleeves of his tunic. She lifted a brow at the lingering acrid scent of smoke. The scent of a common man, not a patrician.
He spared her a glance and her convictions wavered. A common man did not have the confidence, authority and arrogance she saw in those emerald depths.
He scooped Cyma into his arms. “It is all right, little one,” he murmured as Cyma released a sorrow-filled sigh and buried her face in his shoulder.
Adria did not miss the undertone of accusation that she had roused bad memories. She opened her mouth to protest her innocence but the sight of Bran comforting the child muted her indignation into silence. He was a harsh man, yet he held the little girl as if she were a treasure.
“Cyma,” she said, hoping to distra
ct the little girl, “show your—” She searched for an alternative to father and sighed at the only one she could find. “show Bran what you have learned.”
Bran’s gaze sharpened on her as he tried to contain a now wriggling Cyma whose tears had stopped. Adria feigned a calmness she did not feel as he lost the battle and lowered the excited child to the ground.
Cyma danced over to the patch of dried clay. “See my lessons?”
Bran remained where he was, the perfect enigma, watching Adria with an intensity that was more than a little unsettling. What else could she expect? Intimidation was used by every kind of bully she’d ever known, even very handsome ones.
“Come here,” Cyma urged, catching Bran’s hand and dragging him to the improvised tablet.
Adria released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“What is this?” Bran knelt on one knee and studied the marks.
“My lessons,” said Cyma proudly. “Adria taught me how to write.” She pointed at the letters. “See? This is my name. Cyma!”
Bran looked up at Adria. “This is the Roman tongue?”
A flash of irritation swept through her. “It is,” Adria said with a curt nod.
“The bards of my people hold our knowledge here...” He put a hand to his head.
Adria bit back a retort that if all barbarians were half as hard headed as he, that would be quite a feat.
“...and here,” he continued, moving his hand to his heart.
Adria’s chest tightened at the sadness that flitted across his rugged features. As quick as it appeared it was gone.
He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “We have no need to scratch in the dirt.”
Adria raised a brow at the insult and the empathy she’d felt slid away. “And neither would we if we had proper supplies.”
Bran glanced out into the grass covered area before he returned his taunting gaze to her. “It seems you have more than enough, though the landlord would no doubt charge me for damage to his courtyard—which I would then add to the debt you owe.”
“Why, you pompous—” Adria stopped when she saw the worry creasing Cyma’s brow, her blue eyes moist with tears. Pressing her lips together, she sent a pointed look at Bran who by a miracle of the gods, understood her meaning.
He ran his hand down Cyma’s curls, cleared his throat. “But it is a fine job you have done, little one.”
Cyma grinned and threw her arms around Bran’s neck. He patted her back and stood. Julian scampered up, all the adoration of a puppy plain on his face. “I could learn too, Bran!”
Bran nodded absently and started for the house, the two children close on his heels.
Adria picked up the spike and contemplated another name she could scratch in the dirt for Bran.
***
The day was ending as it had begun—with Adria on the pallet in Bran’s bedchamber.
And she was furious.
One would think that after this morning’s debacle, he’d have made other arrangements. But his acknowledgement at supper that the children’s room did indeed not have space for their nursemaid—which seemed to defeat the purpose in having one to her mind—and she would continue to sleep where he could keep an eye on the thief still rang in Adria’s ears. He used the word as if it were a curse, as if each time he called her thief she should grovel at his feet and beg forgiveness for her sins.
Adria tightened her crossed arms and pressed her lips together. Olympus would fall into the sea before that ever happened.
When they’d met two nights past...well, met wasn’t exactly the right word. Encountered, yes encountered each other outside Tiege’s viper’s nest she’d not noticed his use of the word. Between Bran’s anger and Tiege’s threats her focus had been on escape and preserving her life, not insults. But now she was being forced to suffer his presence and his grating slurs and was good and tired of it.
Adria leaned against the wall, the solid stone at her back grounding her while the view before her twisted her into knots.
Bran stood with his back to her, the flickering shadows from a clay lamp blending with rays of waning daylight from the grate overhead. It cast a soft glow across his broad shoulders giving him an otherworldly appearance. Adria smirked. Otherworldly like a demon.
He was staring out the lone window, one hand propped against the wall, the other holding a goblet of wine, one that he’d refilled four times from a large, round jug Menw had delivered with a disapproving grunt.
He’d been brooding like this since he’d ordered everyone to bed after Linus had stumbled in during supper, bloodied, bruised and close mouthed. Menw’s immediate concern had been quelled beneath Bran’s demands to know what had caused his injuries.
Adria shook her head at the memory of the mutinous glare the boy had given Bran along with his refusal to answer. He had marched the boy out of the house toward the goat shed and returned alone.
Bran’s shoulders lifted then fell, the quiet sigh filled less with anger than frustration and weariness.
“Is the boy all right?”
Bran glanced over his shoulder. “Why would you think he is not?”
Adria resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You were not exactly pleased with his silence.”
Bran emptied the wine jar into his chalice. “The boy keeps too many secrets.”
“Everyone has secrets. He is a boy. Boys are known to get into scuffles.”
Bran turned to look at her. Every hard line of his body radiated power, dangerous power. She’d sensed it while waiting in the shadows at Paulin’s for what was proving to be her most costly mistake.
Bran moved away from the window. The man moved with a grace that was both deadly and mesmerizing. Adria swallowed. Her pride refused to allow her to lower her gaze but every survival instinct she possessed prepared to fight or flee. Fleeing went against that stubborn pride. And fighting? She tamped down the tiny shiver of anticipation at the thought of engaging him.
Bran sat on the side of his own bed, a good two arms’ lengths away from Adria’s spot on the floor. She made a face. He still blocked the only path to the door. He leaned forward, his forearms propped on his knees. “You did not answer me,” he said, the wine cup dangling in his hands. “Why did you ask after Linus?”
The split neckline of his tunic gave her a perfect view of his muscled chest. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. “Because you returned to the house without him.” She narrowed her eyes. “Did you beat him senseless?”
A flash of annoyance crossed his face before he raised the corner of his mouth in a lazy smile. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps I beat him senseless then roasted him over a pit, assuaging my hunger with the meat from his bones.” He took another long drink from his chalice, his eyes glittering with more than the spirits. “That’s what you Romans would expect a barbarian to do.”
She tilted her head, considered him. “I do not think so. I saw no smoke from the stable, and you’d just had your dinner,” she drawled. “But his insolence might warrant a beating.”
Bran stared at her in disbelief and for moment Adria thought his mouth quirked at the corners. Gods, how devastating would that handsome face be if he did smile? She was disappointed she would not find out when he schooled his features back into his usual stern expression.
“I did not beat the boy, though perhaps his nursemaid should be switched for asking such a thing.” He tipped the cup in his hands to his mouth frowning into the empty chalice before continuing. “I seared his ears with my displeasure and left him to contemplate his actions. He rests now on his own pallet.”
Adria felt a whisper of relief, though the boy and his acerbic tongue—he’d referenced her as Bran’s whore more than once during his suppertime diatribe—deserved a sound thrashing, she would not have seen him hurt. She tilted her head and studied Bran. She got the impression he was relieved as well.
“The children. They are not yours?”
He raised one brow but remained silent.
“Julian and Cyma. They say their mother was a fighter, that they never knew their fathers.” The look on Bran’s face was so dark that for a moment, Adria thought she may have stepped over an invisible boundary from which there would be no return.
He gave her a long, considering look before he spoke. “Her name was Beatrix,” he answered in a low voice. “She had been sparring in the arena for seven years before I was enslaved and trained as a gladiator.”
There was a bitter undertone in his voice. Adria could not imagine what it was to be a slave, to be owned and bent to another’s will. “I did not know that women fought as gladiators.”
Bran gave a humorless snort. “The Romans will pit anyone and anything against each other as long as it feeds their thirst for blood and entertainment. Women. Animals. The physically weak and addle minded. Even dwarves who struggle to hold their weapons.”
“Not all Romans enjoy the games,” she answered.
Bran raised his gaze. “Perhaps not, but enough do that the owners of the ludi will do whatever it takes to fill their purses. Beatrix’s master ran a school in Alexandria, a more prosperous, successful one then the one where I trained. My...” his lip curled, “...master was an imbecile who knew nothing of training or fighting. He lost many students before they ever made it to the arena.”
“How could the school succeed if the students,” Adria hesitated, “died?”
Bran’s jaw clenched. “Rome’s conquests. If a student was too weak from hunger to dodge an oncoming trident then it was no strain to replace him. Prisoners of war cost next to nothing.”
If not for the shadows in his eyes, Adria would think they were discussing the simple trading of grain or livestock. “He could not continue in that way.”
“No. He was not total fool. By the time I was purchased by the Egyptian he had come into an agreement with Beatrix’s lanista, her owner. He would provide a trainer from his own school in return for a share of Hapu’s profits.” Bran stood and went to the wine jar, growling when he found it empty.
Adria had not counted on such revelation from her simple question. The wine must have loosened his tongue. She’d witnessed her share of loud bragging and arguing in the local tavernas to know that spirits did more than dull the brain. They could make a boisterous man brooding and turn a surly man like Bran into a chattering magpie.