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the edge of his father’s land for his workshop, stoking the smelting fire until it blazed with the white, hot heat needed to make the metals malleable. He had had mallets of all sizes, pincers, tongs, chisels and an assortment of thin hazelwood rods tipped with loops and sharp, curved points he had fashioned specifically for the delicate work.
    He had been known as the son of Fynbar, the man whom the clan most favored to succeed his father as the ruiri or great king. But it had been the quality and artistry of his rings, torcs, amulets, bracelets, brooches and fibulae that had gained Bran renown throughout Eire. He’d trained as a warrior, knew how to till the land and raise the cattle and sheep that helped his clan prosper, all the while trading the pieces he created to increase his personal wealth. A fact, he suspected, that had led to his betrayal.
    The degradation and humiliation of slavery coupled with the horror of fighting in the arena had, he’d thought, destroyed that place deep within him that wanted, that needed, to create objects of beauty. How could it not when all the things that had inspired him had been taken from him? When the light within had been darkened by the blood on his hands?
    Bran slowed his steps as he approached the jeweler’s shop. He hated lowering himself to deal with the Roman elite, but living in this cesspool required coin. Everything from bread to wine to clothes and shoes were purchased rather than made. He could have survived with much less but three children required more and so he’d forced himself to deal with the prick. As he’d forced himself to take up the only skill aside from killing that he knew.
    The amulets and bracelets and earrings he created now paled in comparison to his past pieces. The Romans, to his mind, were too easily pleased, content to wear anything made of gold as long as it was studded with precious stones and could proclaim to the world the status of their wealth. Arrogant bastards.
    Disgust roiled in his stomach as he counted down seven doorways to the rear entrance of Paulin Cornelius’ shop. He raised a fist and pounded on the door. The sooner he finished with the man, the sooner he could collect his payment. The sooner he could be on his way home.
    “Wipe that scowl off your face,” hissed Menw, jostling into position in front of him, “or you’ll scare the man senseless—again.”
    Bran sent a glare to the top of his clansman’s head, watched as Menw straightened his shoulders and smoothed the wrinkles from his tunic. All for appearance, which aggravated him beyond measure. Menw had decided with the first transaction that Bran needed to portray a man of means and that meant having a servant act as intermediary. It was not a matter of pride, Menw had insisted when he’d balked, but a matter of good business. Bran wasn’t fooled. Menw just wanted to insure his temper, sparked so easily, did not jeopardize the transaction.
    Bran crossed his arms over his chest against his rising impatience and waited as Menw knocked again. He glanced down the narrow street. This area of Rome was not as crowded as the rest of the city, the wealthy preferring not to deal with the congestion. Most of the patricians traveled by sedan chair or litters borne on the shoulders of slaves. A few might deem to walk if the distance were not too far but never without a retinue of servants in their wake. The rest would simply send their slaves to conduct their business.
    So the solitary figure moving in their direction did not raise his interest at first. A youth, he thought idly until he caught the subtle sway of feminine hips. A wonder that he’d noticed, dressed as she was in a long, brown tunica several sizes too big, the length of woven hemp tied round her waist doing little to keep the hem from dragging the dirt. His attention sharpened when she lifted the skirt to step over a large crack in the pavement affording him an enticing glimpse of slim ankle. His thoughts