The Patrician (39 page)

“Nor I you.” A dark shadow fell over his face. “Was it terrible for you sister?”

Waves of crushing guilt swelled from him. “We both know the answer to that, Bran. We both carry the scars of our slavery.” She tilted her head to catch his downcast gaze. “Rest easy on one point. I was never abused—in that way—thanks to your tale about my sight.”

Bran sighed heavily, looked relieved. “I wasn’t certain it would work. But those Roman bastards seemed a greedy, superstitious lot.” He eyed her speculatively. “So your visions came readily?”

She thought about the ones she had had of Jared. “No, not always. But I was able to find a lost bauble or predict the fortunes of a dice player often enough.”

Bran nodded, satisfied. He held her gaze, his voice turning to iron. “This man your servant called master, does he own you?”

Only her heart and her soul. She shook her head, shifted her eyes down. “No, circumstances threw us together. He aided my escape from slavery.” She tried to smile but knew she’d failed by Bran’s glower and Menw’s expression. She waved their concerns away. “It is done.” Her look encompassed them both. “How bad?”

Both men stared at the table. Menw spoke first. “I was bought by a man whose ego far exceeded his wealth. He owned only a handful of slaves, and those he worked until we could barely lift our heads.” His eyes misted. “I would have not lived much longer if Bran had not found me.”

Her heart throbbed with the sorrow emanating from the bard. Reaching out, she squeezed his hand.

Bran hesitated when it came his turn to speak, his eyes darkening. “There were times when I wished that I had died. After I saw you dragged away, I became like a madman.” He stared off into space, reliving the memories. “I
was
a madman. It took many blows from a Roman lash before I was subdued. Then it was like I was dead. My price dropped considerably and that—” A sneer curled his lips. “—is when the Egyptian bought me as a gladiator.”

Bryna closed her eyes, tried to focus beyond the blackness that surrounded the word. “How many?” she asked.

The two men exchanged puzzled looks. “How many?” repeated Bran.

“How many men did you have to kill?”

Disgust and anger filled Bran’s green eyes “I did not keep an accounting. Numbers mean little in the midst of slaughter.”

“You are a warrior.”

The planes of his face grew harsh. “A warrior fights for a cause. He fights with purpose, the defense of his land, the survival of his people,” His gaze slid away from her. “The protection of his family. There is no honor in murder.”

Silence filled the tiny room. Menw rubbed moisture from his eyes while Bran sat with his dark head cradled in his hands. Bryna touched her brother’s arm. He jerked violently, pushing her away with such force that she nearly toppled from her seat. His eyes were filled with a wildness that reminded her of Cuini when she had been confined to the sack.

Where was the brother she had known and adored? The man full of life, quick to laugh, with an easy smile that could charm the heat out of any argument.

The devastation wracking his soul was palpable. It was there in the drum tight tension of every muscle, the granite set of his jaw, the deep lines and haunted cast of his eyes.

Menw finally broke the silence. “The enemy has planted dark demons in Bran’s soul. It will take time to heal.”

“It will never heal old man.” Bran poured another draught of wine downing it in one swallow. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, looked at Bryna. “Only one thing kept me from putting an end to it all, letting them kill me with their unholy games—my vow to find you and return to Eire. Now we can.”

But at what price? His soul? For so long she had wanted the same thing. But suddenly, the very thought filled her with anguish.

In leaving this Roman world she would be leaving Jared. Could she really do it? Could she leave the man whose heart had become her own? Would Jared come for her, she wondered. Would he be angry? Saddened? Relieved? He was re-establishing himself as a prominent merchant. Having a barbarian wife would do nothing but hinder those efforts.

Bryna met Bran’s hollow gaze. He had endured untold agonies as a slave, a gladiator, had fought and killed in order to survive and find her. She couldn’t abandon him to this darkness.

Feeling hollow inside, she reached out, touched his arm. He did not pull away this time, though his muscle trembled beneath her fingers.

“Yes, we can go home.”

“G
one?” Jared stared at Talus.  What do you mean gone?”

The butler went pale and his hands shook visibly. “Gone, master. The mistress met a man she called her brother and left with him. I tried to dissuade her but she was adamant.” Misery filled his eyes.

Jared returned his attention to Talus, who had not moved since delivering the unwelcome news. “Just like that, you allowed her to leave?” Talus nodded sorrowfully.

He should have been here. Damon and he had spent a fruitless afternoon attempting to locate Coeus only to find that the
taverna
owner had recently been found floating along the shores of Pharos. Now his servant brings him news that his wife has left. Jared turned from Talus to stare out the window. The view of the Mediterranean framed by arched stone normally took his breath away, eased his soul. Today it did neither.

Bryna was gone.

She had left him.

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, tried to stem the crushing pain in his heart. He had spent a lifetime filled with bitterness, had focused on the mistakes of the past, refusing to understand and accept the present. The future had held no hope for him.

Until Bryna.

Love. Yes, he was in love with the little barbarian witch. With his wife. Life before Bryna was vague, a wisp in his existence. Even in the middle of the degradation of slavery, she had touched him with her fiery spirit, her keen wit, her gentle soul. A mere touch of her slim fingers turned his blood into rivers of heat. There was no imagining life without her.

“Master, I am a worthless cur I know, but the man, her brother, was enormous. There was no way I could challenge him.”

Jared tightened his jaw. “Send word to Damon. We must start a search.”

“I followed them,” Talus said meekly.

“You what?”

Talus drew himself to his full height. “I followed them to her brother’s house.”

Jared strapped on his sword. “Take me there.”

***

Talus did not say a word as he led Jared through the narrow streets. This part of Alexandria was well known as a haven for thieves and other cretins of ill repute. Jared knew it well enough, having spent many hours searching the quarter for clues about his missing merchandise. The shrill laughter of a harlot echoed in the dark.

“This is it, master.” Talus stopped in front of a narrow wooden door. Jared could barely make out the outline of a two story dwelling.

“Wait here,” he instructed Talus.

“But, master. He is huge and not unlike a wild beast. He is, after all, an uncivilized barbarian.” Talus dropped his gaze.

“It does not matter, Talus. She is my wife. No one will stand in the way of that.” He nudged Talus aside, rapped sharply on the door.

No one answered. Jared knocked again, this time more forcefully.

The hinges creaked in protest as the door cracked open, revealing a pair of dark, brown eyes.

“I have come for Bryna.”

“You have the wrong house. I do not know of what you speak,” the voice squeaked.

Jared was one breath quicker than the man and placed his foot in the opening, preventing it from being slammed shut.

But before he could push his way in, the door was flung open and he stood face to face with the gladiator from Hapu’s school. He met Albion’s—Bran’s—stony gaze, calling himself a fool for denying the likeness. The same defiant green eyes that had glared at him so often now stared back at him. Standing at least four inches taller than himself, the gladiator spread his thickly muscled legs apart and crossed his brawny arms across his massive chest.

Jared returned the formidable man’s assessing gaze. Albion was looking for weaknesses, just as he would for an opponent in the arena before going in for the kill. He mirrored the man’s stance. “I am here for Bryna,” he said.

The man’s only response was a tick along his jaw.

A lean man with only one arm stuck his head out from behind the gladiator. “My master does not understand.”

Jared’s gaze did not waver. “Then you can translate for him, in whatever tongue suits him that I have come for Bryna.”

The gladiator spoke in his barbarian tongue to the one armed man.

“My master says that his sister is no longer a slave. She is under his protection. You must go, or die.”

Jared grit his teeth. She had told her brother she was free but not that she was married. “She is not my slave. She is my wife.”

A look of surprise flickered across the gladiator’s face, even before his servant translated. “Wife?” he grunted.

He stared at him. “Yes, wife.”

Bran studied him for a long time. Then with a curt word to the servant, turned and walked into the house.

The servant bade Jared to follow. He stepped through the open doorway into a small atrium. It was plainly built. The only adornments were cracked bowls filled with plants, the scent of their flowering blooms a sharp contrast to the sour stench of the outer street. From the corner of his eye, he saw three young children peeping at him from behind a column.

Bran barked at the one armed man and received a reproving look before the servant turned and bowed to Jared. “I am Menw, steward to Bran the son of a great chieftain—”

“I care not for titles. I want Bryna.”

Menw continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “—and renowned warrior of Eire. My master offers you his hospitality.”

Hospitality? A moment ago, the man had been ready to gut him on the doorstep. He glanced at Bran who stood behind Menw, his expression completely impassive. He was having trouble reconciling the brother Bryna adored with the fierce gladiator Albion. “Just bring Bryna here...”

Menw held up his one hand, cutting him off. “In the land of Eire, to refuse hospitality is to offend. I strongly advise that you accept what my master offers.”

He crossed his own arms in a show of defiance. He didn’t have time to play such games. He wanted his wife—now—and neither this goliath or his skinny servant would put him off.

Menw leaned toward him and spoke from the side of his mouth. “Sir, Bryna and her brother have only been reunited a short time.”

The man had a point. Bryna must have been ecstatic to find her brother. If he fought the man now, injured him, she would never forgive him. His acquiesce came out in a low growl. Jared swore he heard Menw chuckle.

There could not be more than four rooms to the tiny duplex. A stairway of chipped stone gave access to the upper floor. He scanned the small corridor. Bryna was up there somewhere and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to bolt up the steps to find her.

Menw led the way through another doorway into a small dining area. There were no couches to recline upon, only a roughhewn table and benches. Bran straddled one, indicating that Jared should do the same. Menw stood behind Bran.

From the shadows, a young girl no older than twelve appeared. She looked anxiously between the two men. Bran’s hard gaze softened briefly when she set a platter with cheese and fruit on the table. The girl sent the gladiator a pleased smile, which turned to a grimace as a boy several years younger scurried up with two bronze goblets. The vessels clattered nosily as he reached up to set them on the table.

The barest hint of a smile played across Bran’s lips. He nodded his approval as a third youngster, another boy well into his adolescence, brought out a jar of wine. Eyeing Jared with a look of pure mistrust, the boy all but snarled as he filled the cups. Bran bit out a single word. The boy straightened, schooled his features free of belligerence. Menw waved the three children away. How could Bryna’s brother have three children when he’d only been a slave in Alexandria little more than a year?

“Bryna never told me her brother had children.”

Menw offered him the cheese, saying curtly, “They are under his care.”

Bran took a sip of his wine. “My sister. She did not tell me she has husband,” he said in fragmented Greek. “Why?”

Jared took a sip of the wine, appreciated the sweet, mellow taste and considered his answer. “We met under unusual circumstances.”

A dark cloud fell over Bran’s face. “Were you...” He spoke to Menw who whispered in his ear. “...master?”

A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t think there is a man alive who could master Bryna,” answered Jared.

Bran looked to Menw who chuckled behind his hand. The servant quickly translated. Bran’s stern features lightened for a moment then he nodded in agreement.

“It has always been so. My sister knows not how to hold her tongue. I worried much about her when we were captured.” His brow furrowed. “Are you the slave who helped her to escape?”

Bran was nothing if not persistent and, Jared imagined, as volatile in temperament as his sibling. He could fabricate some tale and try to convince him Bryna had married him willingly.

Bran’s harsh countenance convinced him that it would be useless.

“Bryna was used for her clairvoyant talents in a plot to ruin me.  As a result I was kidnapped and sold into slavery. We were sold to the same rural estate to the same master. When I found the chance to flee the one who called me slave, I took Bryna with me.” He omitted the fact that they had been fettered and she had had no choice in the matter. “In an effort to disguise our circumstances, we. . . were married,” he explained.

Bran seemed to be sorting through that information. He pinned Jared with jade hard eyes. “So your joining was not legitimate? It was a ploy?”

Jared tightened his lips. “Our marriage is binding under the laws of my faith. Bryna
is
my wife.”

Bran rolled his empty cup around in his hand. Jared waited impatiently. Being a barbarian—every inch the barbarian—he would agree that a wife belongs with her husband. It was the way of things in all societies.