He never had.
Flavian leaned back in his chair, his aristocratic features tired, drawn. “With her death, I ceased to live.”
Well that was one point he and his father could agree upon. Flavian had wrapped himself up so tight in his own sorrow that he’d turned away from his brokenhearted son. It was grief mixed with emotional abandonment that had become the mortar and brick for the wall Jared had built around his heart. He’d lived his life safe and secure behind that barrier, unwilling to be hurt like that again. But he hadn’t come here to discuss the past.
“I have need of your help,” he said at last, unable and unwilling to hide the bitterness in his tone.
Flavian sighed. “And you shall have it. You are my son.”
***
The beauty of the lush greenery and flowering plants filling the courtyard stood in sharp contrast to the wide, hard marble rim of the fountain edge beneath her and the dull pain in her heart. Bryna wished she could find peace in the melodic trickling of water spouting from a trio of marble fish leaping in frozen unison from the center of a huge, round fountain. The fountain should have been relaxing. Instead her nerves were stretched to their limit.
Judith had told her that Lucien-Jared—had instructed she should wait for him here. And she had been waiting. Almost an hour which gave her more time to think.
Jared had lied.
Bryna tossed a pebble into the fountain, watched the ripples fan out across the water’s surface. Not so unlike the degrees of trust it had taken for her to come to believe in him. Enough to believe he would help her find Bran. Enough to give him her body and, she thought numbly, part of her heart in the process.
Perhaps he hadn’t had a choice, her conscience prodded. A slave bent to the will of his master. Perhaps Jared had had no choice but to lie about his identity. She shook the excuse away. No. Despite the chains he wore, Jared had never been subjugated. Free of his owners, he had had a choice and he had chosen not to tell her he was a despised Roman. She cursed beneath her breath.
“The clothes become you.”
Her gut tightened. She wanted to act unaffected, but felt the heat coursing up her neck. The sight of him leaning against one of the portico columns, muscled arms crossed over the wide expanse of his chest did nothing to aid her composure. An aura of raw power surrounded him, shimmered with brilliant effect. An impression of deep hurt filtered through the effect. She blinked and it was gone.
Jared looked just as he had on the day he’d come to Coeus’
taverna
, prosperous, self-assured, a man in control. He had changed into a tunic of purest white, trimmed with interlocking rectangles of purple embroidery, which only served to deepen the bronze of his skin. Fine leather boots covered his feet. His hair was bound with a gold band and the scars on his wrists hidden by wide, golden bracelets embossed with eagles. Around his neck, looking out of place was the small, star medallion.“You could pass for a princess.”
Her head shot up to his intense, considering gaze. It aggravated Bryna that his compliment pleased her. But she could not let it threaten her resolve. She straightened her shoulders. “I wonder if it is as easy for a barbarian to pose as a princess as it is for a
Roman
to pose as a slave?” she asked coolly.
Jared pushed away from the column, walked around the fountain. He stopped beside her and peered into the flowing water. “I know of no Roman who would have spent months in chains, feeling the bite of the lash for the sake of pretense.”
“Who then would a lowly slave know that owns such a fine house in the midst of Rome itself?”
His jaw tightened. “A man named Flavian Antoninus Septimus.”
She pressed her lips together before replying. “And why would this Roman
risk giving sanctuary to fugitives?”
He gave her a sideways look. “Because he is my father.”
Bryna closed her eyes. His father? Could there be a bigger fool than she? “So you lied about being Hebrew?”
“No,” he shot back, his gold eyes glittering, “My mother
was
Hebrew.”
Confusion softened the sharp edges of her ire even as he kept his silence, staring at the water. She crossed her arms, wanted to ignore the waves of pain pulsing from him with an energy ten times that of her own hurt. Damn her sight for coming to life now when she wanted, needed, to be angry with him. But looking at his dejected posture and seeing the misery in his eyes she wanted only to comfort him. With a sigh of resignation, she grasped his hand.
The warmth of Bryna’s hand on his skin was like a soothing balm on the raw surface of his deepest wound. Jared had never talked about his feelings, the hurt that ran so deep even he had lost sight of its beginning. Not to his father or his uncle, his family, not even to Damon, who had been there through it all. But he found he wanted to tell Bryna. “I haven’t seen him for ten years, since the summer I turned sixteen.” He shrugged. “It was a mutual arrangement that suited the thick headed youth I was perfectly. I hated my father and the Roman heritage with which he poisoned me.”
“Youths often clash with their fathers,” she said quietly.
“Were that it was that simple.” He struggled inside his head, trying to fit the pieces together enough to make sense. “My mother was Hebrew. A merchant’s daughter who happened to catch the eye of a Roman scholar, come to visit the libraries of Alexandria. They wed against the wishes of her family and the objections of his peers. Less than a year later, I was born. We lived here, in Rome, in this house, where Father could still carry out the academic duties of building a private library for the Emperor.” He chanced a glance at Bryna, but she was staring into the water, as if watching the scene unfold. He shook off the notion that her mysterious sight was showing her anything past what he chose to share.
“Mother held her head high, ignored the social slights, the whispered insults. She thought she could protect me from the ridicule, but I brought home too many black eyes and split lips for that lie to stand.”
Bryna nodded, met his gaze. He saw no pity in her eyes, but an unsettling understanding that caused his heart to stutter. “Mother’s worry was too much for Father. He convinced the Emperor he could be of better use compiling texts from Alexandria and so we returned to Egypt. Mother’s family was ecstatic to have her close to home, so they tolerated her Roman husband and accepted her half-blood son into their lives.”
He paused, took a deep breath. “She was determined things would be different for me. Father allowed her to teach me about her faith, her God, her holy scriptures. And so when I turned thirteen it was natural that she wanted me to perform the ritual of entry as a member of the temple. Father refused. He told her he had tolerated her instruction, as he believed in the value of education. But his son would not be worshiping one God and ignoring the gods of his
familia
.”
He rubbed his temple, felt the familiar thickness of the scar, the painful memories. “They had a terrible argument. They thought I slept but I heard every word. I went to sleep convinced all would be well the following morning. But that night Mother came, roused me out of bed. We journeyed to visit her father in Judea. She told me father would follow us. The night before I was to read in the temple, my grandfather’s village was raided by a patrol of Roman soldiers.” The lump in his throat grew. “Mother was killed trying to defend the villagers.”
Bryna’s soft gasp rose above the noise of the water splashing into the pool. The knot in his chest twisted tighter, against any further revelation. These were only the facts. Facts that he’d not spoken of since he’d left Rome.
“You blame your father?”
Gods. “Yes. . .no.” Twelve years of guilt and grief hammered against the wall he’d built around his heart. “I blame myself. My mother died because of me.” Jared pulled his hand away, pressed his fingers against the hot moisture building in his eyes. The admission had opened a crack in the barrier and he scrambled to stem the flow of emotion. The only way he’d survived these past years had been to maintain rigid control.
The soft touch of Bryna’s hand along the line of his jaw snapped his eyes open. She was less than a breath away.
“Your mother died because she believed in something important. Important to her, important for her son. Your father did not realize what it meant and for that he blamed himself more heavily than you ever could.” She gave him a sad smile. “Facing you with that knowledge was more painful than he could bear and so he distanced himself to save you from the deeper hurt.”
There was truth in what she said, but Jared couldn’t just release the deep ache in his soul. It was not that simple. His penance was not complete. And never would be. A sudden desire for forgiveness welled within him. From himself, from his father.
From Bryna.
She made to move her hand, but he caught it in his, brushing his lips across the tender skin of her inner wrist. Gratitude filled him when she did not pull away. He needed her warmth, her strength. Desire flared in those luminous green eyes, turning them into the deep green of a forest. She leaned into him and caught his mouth in a kiss. His sharp intake of breath dissolved into a low moan of pleasure. She tasted of honey and sunshine. Of hope. “Bryna,” he breathed against her lips. “I am not one of them. I am not a Roman.”
She eased away, a delectable pink blush rising across her cheeks. “Are you not, Jared? Or is it Lucien who is?”
He allowed her to slip from his grasp, braced himself for the judgment that always came. Bryna’s rejection he knew, would be the worst of all.
Bryna wrapped her arms around her middle, her expression thoughtful. “I have experienced firsthand that the Romans use a very shallow scale to determine a person’s worth. Be honest, Jared, you judge yourself with the same measure. You are more like them then you want to believe. Nothing will change until you come to terms with your birthright and see the value in who you are.”
His gut clenched. No one had ever seen past the lines of his heritage. He’d had to fight for every ounce of respect, every concession, everything he’d ever accomplished. All that he possessed had been gained despite who he was. What he was. How could a barbarian understand that?
A shallow scale.
His gaze shot to hers. The disappointment and sadness in them jarred him to the core. Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked through the polished columns of the colonnade into the house.
“
T
oss it again.”
Bryna smiled at the curly headed child holding out his hands. How many times could one small boy chase a toy?
“Come on,” he said again, hopping back and forth on chubby legs.
“Jacob! Stop bothering Mistress Bryna,” scolded Judith. Jacob paused long enough to stick his tongue out at his eldest sister before running after the ball.
Judith adjusted the basket of apples on her lap, saying over her shoulder, “Mother, you’re raising a heathen.”
Judith’s mother was a robust woman with a broad face who appeared quite youthful. The only sign that Esther was mother to six children was the handful of tiny lines that crinkled in the corner of her eyes when she smiled. She bent over the compact stone hearth, poked at the roasting pigeons before answering. “He’s a baby yet, doesn’t understand what being a heathen entails.” Her smile encompassed Bryna. “Though I do agree his energy might be more than the Mistress counted on before she joined us.”
Bryna returned Esther’s smile, tossed the ball to a squealing Jacob. She was glad she had won out over Judith’s objections that a Mistress of the household had no place in the kitchens. It took her mind off of infuriating men.
Jared’s tale of his mother’s death had torn at her heart. She had seen the devastation in his eyes, felt the anguish, the turmoil of the little boy whose life had disintegrated in the space of a moment. It was wrong that he had carried the burden of responsibility alone all these years. Jared’s father should be flogged for such indifference.
His vulnerability had touched her and she had wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms, make him forget the pain. But then the impressions had hit her. Dismissive, derisive, judgmental. He still thought of her as a barbarian and it hurt more than she wanted to admit, more than it should. When it was all said and done, his recent time spent in slavery aside, he was still Roman.
Something soft brushed against her leg. She looked down at a large orange cat. It sat proudly on its haunches, looking up at her with self-assured authority. “What is this?” she asked, intrigued by the furry creature.
Esther glanced over. “Oh, that is just one of the cats who keeps the mice in control.”
Bryna stroked the feline’s head, delighted with the deep rumbling from its stout body and cheek rubbing against her hand. A sense of peace flashed in her mind.
“Seems she likes you,” chuckled Esther, “She hisses at everyone else.”
“Does she have a name?” asked Bryna.
Judith wrinkled her nose. “Just cat.”
Bryna lifted the feline into her lap. “I shall call her
Cuini.
It means queen in my language.” Seemingly giving approval of her new name,
Cuini
dipped her head and rubbed it against Bryna’s chin.
“Will Master Lucien be dining tonight?” asked Judith as she handed her mother the sliced apples. Bryna shifted uncomfortably under their questioning looks. Of course they would ask her, they thought she was his wife.
“My son has some pressing matters to attend to.”
All eyes turned to the man standing in the doorway. Even if she had not noticed all the servants shifting into postures of deference, she would know this man as Flavian Antoninus Septimus. He carried himself with the same self-assurance and
command that Jared did.
With the barest nod of his head, Flavian directed everyone to leave. Esther dampened the fire to protect the fowl, shooed Judith and Jacob out the door. As he passed Flavian, Jacob dropped the ball at his feet. The Roman scooped the toy up, tossing it underhand to the little boy. Jacob smiled as Flavian tousled his hair then scampered to catch up with his mother.