Barbarian's Soul
Barbarian’s Soul
By Joan Kayse
Chapter One
T
he bastard wouldn’t die.
The roar in Bran’s head amplified. Dark splatters covered his arms. Blood saturated the sand, none of it causing him to lose focus. Not even the bulging eyes, purple face and gaping mouth of the man he straddled, hands clamped round his throat. None of it distracted him from his single minded purpose.
Kill
.
A tight knot of anger, despair and adrenaline poured strength into his hands. He squeezed his opponent’s neck harder, swore he heard the crack of bone. Some part of him, some small part that had not turned into an animal, forced his wits back to the moment. Blood trickled from the Gaul’s mouth, his face contorted, sightless eyes staring at Bran.
The roar in his head morphed into wild cheers from the arena.
Aghhhhhhhhhhhh...
Bran jolted upright, sucked in great gulps of heavy moist air, skin slick with fear, lost in a fog of terror. His heart pounded against his chest like a blacksmith’s hammer while his throat constricted, threatened to cut off what breath he had. Blindly, he reached for his sword, his stomach lurching in panic when he could not lay his hand on it. Through the lingering haze of the dream he knew he was dying.
But he didn’t die.
Awareness washed over him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, groaned at the shock of his bare feet hitting cold stone. It finished waking him, dissipated the stark images of death, the jeering mobs, his sword buried in the man’s gut, his hands cramping from the choking. One of many images that plagued him
every
night.
He speared his fingers through the tangled mass of his hair, dimly aware that they trembled harder than usual. He never died. Not in his dreams, not during the nightmare that had been his life these past two years.
His bleary gaze fell to the thick scar running from his left knee to his hip; an Ethiopian with a curved
sica
and bad aim. Splaying a hand along his ribs he traced familiar ridges of puckered skin. Three perfectly spaced, round marks left by a Thracian with a sharp trident and poor skills. There were at least a dozen other reminders of his matches in the arena scattered over his body. Bran blew out a slow breath. Thirty- three men he’d fought, each desperate to live.
Thirty-three gladiators who had died so that he would not.
“So, you are awake at last. The dawn is near to breaking and yet you lie about in bed like a lazy Roman.”
Bran managed a grunt as Menw circled the spacious chamber, blowing out sputtering oil lamps, opening shuttered windows, picking up empty
amphorae
—not an easy task for a man with one arm. Bran squeezed his eyes shut. Falsely accused of thievery by his Roman master, Menw had been punished with the loss of his hand. The injustice of it burned a hole in Bran’s gut worse than cheap spirits. If he’d rescued him sooner perhaps his clansman would still be whole.
And what of the others? What of Gair? Had he been sold to a cruel master? Bran thought about his boyhood friend. Gair had a temper, was too bold by half. Slavery would do more than maim. It would kill his friend.
As it had almost killed him.
Bran snatched a goblet from the floor beside his bed before Menw could take it and drained out the last drop of wine.
Menw paused in front of him. “You’ve developed quite a taste for Rome’s favored beverage.” He sniffed the mouth of the clay jar he held and made a face. “Not as good as the ale back home, if you were to ask me.”
No, but it dulled the memories enough that he could fall asleep. “Old man, why are you in here yammering at me like a Greek harpy?” He grabbed his head and groaned. By Danu, his own voice sounded like the cacophony of screeching flutes and clashing cymbals that always signaled the beginning of the games. The memory of that dirge of death caused bile to rise in his throat.
“I’m here to remind you of your promise to your sister.”
Gods, his head hurt. Bran squinted up at Menw. “Promise?”
Menw’s exasperated sigh sounded like the howling winds that swept off the great mountain back home. “You promised to break your fast with her this morn.”
Bran stood, closed his eyes until the dizziness passed. He had no desire to socialize this morning. In fact, were it left to him, he’d stay in the darkened room all day. “Food would only sour in my stomach.” He sent a slanted look at Menw. “You will send my regrets.”
“No. I will not.”
He recognized the mulish set of his friend’s mouth. He could command him to obey but it would do little good. Though he’d set himself up in that position, Menw was not his servant but a member of his clan through his mother’s bloodline. While he often referred to him as an old man, he was only a handful of years older than Bran. Slight of build with wheat-colored hair and brown eyes, he was no warrior but a renowned bard. Chieftains throughout Eire revered Menw’s skill for storytelling. He could recite the history of the land back to the beginning of time and the stories he could weave, both fact and fable, were always welcomed at any chieftain’s fire. For that alone Bran would be patient.
“Bryna will understand,” he answered. Aye, his sister would understand much too well. That was what Bran wanted to avoid.
His sister possessed a mystical gift, the ability to see things unspoken. Once it had been erratic but it had grown stronger after the birth of her son—more controllable. There were things he’d hidden from her—hell from himself—he didn’t want found out.
He crossed to a table, propped his hands on it while Menw filled a bronze bowl from a chipped stoneware pitcher. He scooped up handfuls of cold water and splashed his face, rubbed his eyes free of sleep and drink. An image of the chill mountain stream that ran along his father’s fields flashed in his mind. Another reminder of home. He accepted the linen cloth Menw offered. The vivid impressions of Eire had been occurring with increasing regularity these past weeks. Cruel punishment by the gods perhaps to remind him of all he had lost.
Menw gave him a measured look. “Aye, she understands. Bryna has also been unable to fully release her guilt.”
Bran’s chest tightened. “The fault was not hers.” It had never been hers, he thought miserably, and it added to his own burden knowing she had spent those months in slavery blaming herself for what
he
had caused.
“What has happened, has happened and living it over and over again will do nothing to change it. Bryna is making a new life with her husband and child.” Menw’s voice gentled. “She wants that life to include her brother.”
A life in Rome? The wine curdled in his stomach. The thought of spending the rest of his days in this filthy cesspool called the Empire was beyond his comprehension. He’d only stayed this long because of Bryna, to insure her happiness.
And that had been accomplished. Bryna was as content as he had ever seen her, completely in love with Jared, a wealthy Hebrew merchant prince who also carried Roman blood in his veins. One drop of that vile blood was more than enough to taint the man’s worth, in Bran’s opinion, but Jared had proved an honorable man who cherished his sister and the son they had made together. “You know I cannot remain here.”
Menw nodded once. “I know your path lies in a different direction.” He set the
amphorae
down with the others he’d collected. “But not for a while yet.”
Bran chuckled at the serious expression on his friend’s face. “What are you? Another seer?”
“The gift does come through your mother’s blood,” Menw replied with a wry smile. “But no. I just know my chieftain’s son. He will not rest until the wrong done to him is set right.”
Bran stalked to the divan and dug out his tunic from among the rumpled covers. His clansman had the right of it, he thought as he slid the garment over his throbbing head. His trading party had been targeted and ambushed with purpose. He’d spent every night in his cell at the
luda, the gladiator school,
reliving the events, trying to discern who had hated him with such vehemence as to betray him to this hell.
He would return home.
He would discover his enemy.
And he would kill him.
The visions he’d been experiencing—and he could no longer deny that they were indeed visions—were pushing him toward that end.
Unfortunately, he did not possess the depth of sight his sister did and he could not predict the outcome. But one thing he knew for certain. When he left Rome he would never return. He needed no dreams to tell him that.
Bran gathered his hair to the nape of his neck and secured it with a length of leather, leaving the two, thin braids of an Eire warrior to swing freely from his left temple.
“Why are you standing there staring at me, Menw? Bryna will be in a fine temper if I am late.”
***
It was taking longer than Bran anticipated to reach his sister’s
domus
on the Palatine hill which only added to his foul mood. Normally, he could walk the short distance from the modest house he rented at the bottom of the hill in less than a quarter hour but today he had to wrestle his way through swarms of people celebrating the festival of some Roman fertility god.
A squat, terra cotta likeness of the god complete with a huge phallus adorned with garlands of flowers was being paraded down the street to the accompaniment of reeds and drums. The faithful were in a near frenzy, calling out loud supplications for stamina with a lover or cures from disease
caught
from said lover. Just another sign of Rome’s depravity. He growled and leveled a potent glare on one of the horny bastards when he tried to place a circlet of laurel leaves on Bran’s head.
Bran broke free of the throng and started up the stone-paved road toward the enclave of fine villas where Bryna lived with her husband. It came as no surprise that Rome’s elite had chosen the choicest of the seven hills upon which to build their privileged lives. The air was clean and fresh here, free from the acrid smoke of cooking fires, sewage and the sour stench of too many people crowded together. Wide expanses of grass, trees and flowers were interspersed between the lavish homes adding to the illusion of pastoral beauty. He raised his face to the sky, relished the warmth of the sun on his skin. A man could almost feel free here.
“Barbarian.”
He swiveled his head toward a small group of slaves working outside one of the opulent
domus’.
It wasn’t hard to guess which one had muttered the taunt; the smirk was plain on the face of the fat man pruning the bushes. Bran paused just long enough to bring the man’s attention to him. Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword he watched with bitter satisfaction as the smirk dissolved into a look of stark terror.
Bran scowled as he continued up the path. Romans had a penchant for calling anyone outside a citizen of the cursed Empire a barbarian. He had a word for them—bastards.
The prick’s taunt shouldn’t bother him. He’d been called much worse in the past two years and had received a fair share of contemptuous looks and overt slurs since gaining his freedom. Then he had blocked the insults from his mind, focused only on fighting and surviving. Now he seemed to hear them all and felt compelled to feed their fear. They should consider themselves fortunate that he was able to resist the urge to slice their throats.
He veered left through the gate of his sister’s house. Soon it would not matter. His plans to leave were nearly complete. He had spoken privately to Jared, who had agreed to provide a ship and crew for the journey. He had sworn his brother-in-law to secrecy though they both knew keeping the knowledge from Bryna would be near to impossible.
Guilt tugged at him. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep secrets from his sister, only that he wished to spare her the pain of a long farewell. At least that was his argument whenever his own doubts surfaced. She had endured much because of him and the thought of causing her more anguish was unthinkable. He took a deep breath, raised his fist and pounded on the bronze door.