Kitabı oku: «Slave Princess», sayfa 4

‘Is Lindum like Eboracum?’ Brighid said, trying to push away the thought that she might be needed.

‘Not now. There used to be a legionary fortress here, but that’s gone. They’ve re-used the buildings for retired army officers, so now they sit over their dining tables, reminiscing about their battles and showing off their scars and appointing themselves as local governors. All veterans, the lot of them. Quite harmless unless you happen to own a bit of land they want to build a basilica or a bath house on. Then they’re not.’ There was a distinctly bitter tone to Florian’s profile of Lindum’s senior citizens that Brighid chose not to enquire into. She did not intend to stay longer than she must with either Florian or his master, so there was little point in being curious, she told herself. Most slaves harboured some resentments.

Seated at the back of the wagon, she was herself an object of curiosity, at first from those following who were intrigued by the transformation, then by those they passed on the busy road into the town. Quintus was also fascinated by the elegant young woman whose combination of tribal and Roman was not only unusual but rather more sensational than even he had anticipated, and Brighid could hardly help but notice how he and his two friends rode immediately behind the guards where they could keep her in view as they passed under the great arch of the north gate. The Tribune had expressed no opinion of Florian’s handiwork, but both slaves had recognised in his eyes a lingering approval as every detail was noted, though his curt nod was the only tangible sign he gave.

Florian had been accurate in his assessment of the elderly legate at whose mansion they arrived after a laborious jostle through the crowds. He had not, however, passed a similar opinion about the legate’s wife who, just as elderly as her husband, had striven for many hours to remove the years from her well-worn face and figure. Sadly, her attempts had not had the desired effect, worst of all being the elaborate black wig that sat too far down on her brow, the knots of which were clearly visible. Left alone, her age-wrinkles would have made a fascinating map of emotion and experience, but the Lady Aurelia’s decision to fill them in with lead-based powder made Brighid pity her and Florian to mutter under his breath that it looked as if she’d fallen into the flour bin again. It was beyond funny, Brighid thought, standing well back behind the Tribune’s two personal slaves, noting at the first glance how the lady’s eyes dwelt greedily upon his handsome face, caressing him with melting looks.

‘Welcome, Tribune,’ she said. ‘Restored to health, I see. You were far from well when we saw you last. The Emperor has looked after you. And Tullus and Lucan, welcome.’

They went to stand in the atrium of the legate’s mansion, now expanded and made more beautiful with painted columns and a tiled floor. A fountain caught the late afternoon sun before sparkling into the green pool; it was the cool lure of water that held Brighid’s attention as Florian nudged her into awareness. ‘Follow,’ he whispered. ‘Keep up. And keep your eyes lowered.’

‘She’s staring at me.’

‘So’s the old man, but you know better than to stare back.’

Gliding ahead in a swirl of orange-and-yellow silks, the Lady Aurelia led her guests along cool corridors, past doorways that had once been offices and round to the far side of the block where rooms had been set aside for Quintus’s retinue. Brighid tried hard to make herself invisible against the green-painted walls, but the high-pitched voice of their hostess was meant to reach her ears as well as the Tribune’s. ‘There’s a room upstairs for your slaves,’ she said. ‘There’ll be food for them in the kitchen after we’ve eaten. We shall be ready to dine as soon as you’ve bathed, Tribune, and I can find a task for the girl, if you’ve finished with her for the day.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Quintus, ‘but I shall be keeping her with me.’ There was an authority in his voice with which even the Lady Aurelia chose not to argue and, with a lift of her eyebrows and a stony stare sent like a dart in Brighid’s direction, she left the room with Tullus and Lucan, leaving a faint vinegary smell in her wake. Quintus put the back of his hand to his nose, but whether to cover a smile or to stifle the smell no one could tell. He did, however, glance at Brighid, his dark brooding expression making her wonder what thoughts were passing through his mind, and whether his sigh was one of relief or annoyance.

Since he appeared to have all the assistance he needed, she decided to sit out of the way on a small day-bed by the wall and to take out her sewing, of which there was still plenty. It had not been easy to ply a needle in a jolting wagon, and here was a chance to make use of the last daylight hour. The Tribune’s order to one of his slaves took her by surprise. ‘Find your way to the kitchen and request a tray of food for the Princess. She’s not going to wait till midnight before she gets a bite to eat. And fresh milk, not wine. I want it in here by the time I’ve bathed. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Florian, you stay here with the Princess and prepare my clothes. You come with me, lad,’ he said to the other one. ‘You, Princess, will stay in this room. No exploring.’ She knew he must have read her mind, for the baths would be abandoned when the guests went in to dine. She doubted if Florian would stay here all that time, with a new friend waiting for him.

The new friend had not been inclined to wait, and he found a way to the Tribune’s room soon after the guests had assembled and the sound of laughter had floated away into the spacious triclinium where the aroma of food mingled with the perfumed hems of robes. Brighid was eating ravenously, hardly bothering to look up as the discreet knock on the door broke the silence. Florian was on his feet immediately, as if that was what he’d been hoping for.

‘Come inside quickly,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t stay.’

‘I know.’

At the sound of the voice, Brighid almost cried out and, had her mouth not been full of food, she might well have done so at the secretive half-smile sent over Florian’s shoulder. So, she had not been abandoned after all. Her prayers had been answered.

Math, she whispered. Dearest brother. You came for me.

But Math frowned her to silence as Florian turned to introduce him and her smile had to be reined in before the joy and relief showed in her eyes.

Chapter Four

Brighid’s tray of food, which was much better than slaves’ fare and had been tasty a moment ago, now lost all flavour in the excitement of seeing her brother again after all the terrible heartache of separation. Older than her by only eighteen moons, Math was the younger of the two brothers, though all three siblings had different mothers. It was a custom taken to its limits by their father, the chieftain. Consequently Math bore no resemblance to his sister, and so little did he resemble his father in all the ways that mattered that beatings and scorn were daily fodder to the gentle young man who had felt that life without his sister would be unbearable.

From beneath her lashes, Brighid observed Math and Florian together and wondered why in twenty years she had never reached the same conclusion about her brother as she had about Florian in one day. Here in the company of Roman citizens, Florian’s gentle tendencies were appreciated and utilised, not ridiculed, whereas at home in the hill-fort Math’s ineptitude in all manly pursuits was seen as a disgrace. Was coming to find his sister and return her to her people Math’s way of redeeming himself in his father’s eyes? If there was a way, he would surely find it.

She could understand the brevity of their introduction, with Florian providing no more than a name. ‘Princess, allow me to present my friend Max. Max, this is the Princess. She’s the one I was purchasing the shrine for.’

Math bowed politely. ‘I hope you were happy with our choice, domina,’ he said.

‘Perfect,’ said Brighid, smiling into his large brown eyes. He was putting on a Roman face, she thought. Like her. The natural linen tunic suited him better than woollen plaids and leather. His hair was short and clean, dark brown like chestnut skins and free of that awful lime that men used to make it spiky. In spite of the broken nose, Math was still a comely young man, more so than his ferocious parent had ever been. ‘I appreciate your help,’ she said.

She would like to have said more, but Florian was impatient to claim him, and she knew they would have little enough time to make arrangements for the night. She put her tray aside and wiped her hands on the napkin, tempted to risk the Tribune’s displeasure, and the threat that would surely follow, to find the bathhouse and take a dip. With Math nearby to help her escape, her defiance doubled.

She was still dwelling on the possibility when one of the Tribune’s slaves entered, addressing himself to her as one who merely recites the message but takes no responsibility for its content. ‘The Tribune commands you to come to him, Princess,’ he said with a sideways glance at the two friends. ‘I am to escort you.’

‘Now?’ said Brighid, putting down the sewing she had just picked up. ‘Whatever for?’

Florian helped the messenger out. ‘Now, domina. When the Tribune sends for you, you go. You don’t ask why.’ He came to her and helped her up, looking her over like a maid, tweaking at the folds of her gown and throwing the ends of her palla to hang down her back. ‘Go quickly,’ he said.

Filled with concern, her eyes met those of her brother. Without words, he was telling her to stand tall, to hold her head up like a high-born princess, not to act the humble slave, but to keep her dignity. Fortunately, it was an exchange that neither of the other two saw as she left the quiet room and headed for the triclinium where a steady stream of slaves carried salvers and bowls, urns and glasses as if for a feast of fifty instead of half that.

Frescoes decorated the walls; her sandalled feet slapped upon the patterned floor, past marble busts in niches, past the tables of rare woods and the dark fountain in the centre of the atrium, its droplets caught in the light of a dozen lamps. Sounds of laughter and the buzz of conversation reached her with the rich aroma of food, and she knew even before she arrived that this was to be some kind of demonstration of her docility. The newly tamed barbarian. Like the Tribune himself, their preconceived ideas about tribal people would be sadly out of date, and she wondered how much the Tribune had said about her, and who it was who wanted her there. She thought she could guess.

She had heard that Romans preferred to recline on couches to eat, but she had never quite understood how this could be done without taking up much space. So it was difficult for her to find the Tribune’s face amongst so many white-clad men until she was edged past several pairs of slippered feet and brought to a stop at the end of one couch. By this time, the chatter had ceased and faces on the opposite side of the piled table were following her progress, watching like hawks for the submissiveness they expected, their hands groping blindly for the next mouthful of food.

It was the Lady Aurelia, just before Quintus turned, whose piercing voice began what she intended to be Brighid’s humiliation, for she had been denied one chance already and the girl was obviously giving herself airs. ‘Ah, here she is, Tribune. What does she call herself? Princess, is it? Well, we are honoured.’

From the head of the table, Quintus answered for her. ‘It is I who calls her that, my lady. As the daughter of a chieftain, that is her title.’

‘I see. So that’s why you allow her to deck herself with all that tribal clutter. Does she do anything to earn her keep?’

That raised a laugh, as Aurelia knew it would, and Brighid could feel their intrusive stares taking in every detail of her appearance. She felt her anger rise, wondering how much of this she would have to take without responding.

‘I should think she’s worth her weight in gold, eh, Quintus?’ called out one of the men facing him, looking round to see who saw the joke.

‘Does she read to you?’ called another.

‘Does she speak?’

‘Does she need to?’

Bellows of laughter. Tullus and Lucan looked uncomfortable. The guests were mostly ex-soldiers, not diplomats.

Quintus took it all in his stride. ‘I’ve told you,’ he said. ‘The Princess’s father had his offspring well educated. These people are not all as uncultured as you seem to believe. The idea is not new.’

Brighid could hold her tongue no longer. ‘Your historian Tacitus recommended it,’ she called out, rashly.

Mouths gaped at her effrontery. Here was a slave speaking without permission.

‘Not women,’ one man said, loudly. ‘He was talking about men.’

‘But the poet Martial was not,’ she retorted. ‘He actually approved of the British woman Claudia Rufina. She was taken for an Italian by the women of Rome, sir.’

‘Nobody will ever take you for one,’ snapped the Lady Aurelia, ‘wearing that stuff round your neck. And with that hair.’

‘I should hope not, my lady,’ said Brighid, hotly. ‘But perhaps we should not discuss hair. Mine is my own, at least.’

The silence was almost tangible.

Quintus moved fast, leaping to his feet to take Brighid’s arm as the shocked amusement rippled round the room, hands hiding smiles, heads ducking, eyes peeping towards their white-faced hostess. By his stillness, her husband seemed to imply that she had brought it on herself.

But having burned her bridges so soon, Brighid was sure to be in deep trouble unless she could escape in time to avoid it. In which case, she might as well have her last say. ‘And my people, lady,’ she called out, dodging under Quintus’s arm, ‘have better manners than to send for a woman in order to insult her for the amusement of guests.’

‘Enough!’ Quintus said with one hand in the small of her back.

‘Not tamed yet then, Tribune?’ called a voice on the edge of laughter.

With a distinct lack of ceremony she was propelled towards her waiting escort. ‘Take her back. I’ll deal with her later. And watch her,’ Quintus growled.

‘Yes, sir.’

But Brighid was already striding away from the subdued guests where the grating voice of the outraged hostess could be heard telling them all what she would do with an impertinent slave girl, princess or not. Without a look back, Brighid dodged around kitchen slaves like quicksilver, her rage at boiling point, the blazing green of her eyes awash with tears. This was just the kind of thing her father had protected her from amongst people of their own sort. Here, in Roman guise, she was a target for more abuse than before. She ought never to have dressed up like this, for she had suspected all along that the mixture of styles would provoke the wrong kind of interest. A hybrid to be made fun of. A circus freak.

Furiously, her fingers clawed at the ties that bound her gown, at the floating palla that had concealed very little, after all, and at the brooch on her shoulder. Her sense of direction registered nothing of turns to right or left, of doorways and steps, the night air and garden scents.

‘No, domina! No, not that way!’ called her young escort.

Blinded by tears and rage, Brighid paid no attention, stepping out of her blue-green gown and hurling it at the poor lad’s head. He crashed into a column, yelped, and tried again. ‘Come back, Princess! It’s the other way, not …’ His protest faded as she rounded a corner where the floor was warm and the faint aroma of water and steam lured her on. A trio of small oil lamps cast a light from the steaming pool to ripple upon the curved ceiling above, inviting her to wash away the coarse remarks that clung to her like grime. Her escort had not followed. She was alone.

Without a pause in her stride she ran down the shallow steps into the water, pulling the white undergarment over her head to let it float away while she plunged deep into the comforting cleansing bath that closed over her head, as kindly as sleep. With hands together, she cut through the warmth, surfacing at the far end dressed only in her collar, bracelets and anklets, the plaits and braids of her hair already darkening. After all the deprivations and discomforts, the lack of freedom and exercise, the warm flow of water over her naked body was more blissful than a plunge into an icy stream, and because the experience was likely never to be repeated, she would make the most of the luxury while it was still hers.

Completely lost in her new liberty and of the ease of swimming in still water, she explored all the possibilities of acrobatics, rolling and tumbling, floating and diving like a dolphin, and only when she surfaced upon the watery steps, panting and laughing, did she see the two large bare feet just beyond her head. They belonged, quite obviously, to a man, for only a few inches above them was the hem of a toga. Purple-banded. He was bending, holding out a hand.

‘Come on,’ he said, sternly. ‘Come out now.’

Her fun was over. Now would come the reckoning. But she was not ready to give up her freedom so soon. Remembering the way he had said and done so little to take her side against the opposition, Brighid cupped her hand under the water and flung it at him, hoping to make him step back. Then, as fast as a fish, she turned and fled, only facing him again from the middle of the pool where she had to tread water to stay afloat. To her horror, she saw that he was unwinding his toga like a bandage, preparing to join her.

‘You’ve been watching, haven’t you? Go away!’ she yelled.

He came to stand on the steps, naked, magnificent. ‘If you want the rest of them to come in here,’ he said, quietly, ‘keep shouting.’ Then, without warning, he plunged, heading straight for her in one arrow-sharp trajectory that might have caught her in two seconds had she not dived deeply beneath him, hiding under the surface as he scanned the pool and blinked water out of his eyes. She surfaced yards away, facing him angrily, and again he speared himself at her, only to see her become a shadow underneath him, crossing his path.

The pool had been built for soldiers as part of the barracks complex with space enough for manoeuvre, and if Brighid had not already tired herself with diving, she would have been confident about staying out of his reach. But her water-logged hair and the gold around her neck and limbs added to the effort of surfacing, and now her lungs had begun to ache. She dared not risk another breathtaking plunge.

Gasping for air, she saw through the haze of steam how his face and hair glistened, how his wide shoulders shone like armour, polished and hard. His arms lay outstretched upon the water, his narrowed eyes watching to see which way she would turn. ‘Go away,’ she panted. ‘You may not see me like this. Don’t come any nearer.’

‘It was always a risk, Princess,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t it?’

‘If you intend to punish me, then wait till I’m clothed. You said little in my defence in there, Roman, but I’d not have thought your lack of manners was equal to theirs.’ Again, she flung a handful of water at him.

He moved closer, but without the derisory smile she’d half-expected. ‘There was no need to defend you, lass. You did well enough without my aid. And my manners don’t enter into it. A man may look at his slave in any state he chooses.’

The objectionable word acted like a trigger upon Brighid’s temper and she hurled herself aside with a splash, yelping the predictable reply, ‘I am not your slave! Do what you like … sell me … drown me … leave me … no! Leave me!’ Her last words were torn apart by the surging foam and by her frantic struggles against the expanse of muscled chest that bore down upon her. His hands reached out.

The water at her back would not give way, so she ducked deep once more to evade him, kicking him as she passed, knowing that he would not let her go, even if it took all night. But although he chased her to the far end of the pool and back, with some near-misses, it was the shallow water-lapped steps that claimed her like a stranded fish, face down, with Quintus hanging on to one ankle. Her head felt like a lead weight, her lungs were on fire, and she had no strength to object or retaliate when his hand moved up to rest on the deep curve of her waist.

‘That’s what you needed, isn’t it, Princess? Eh? Some exercise after all that confinement,’ he said. ‘That should take the edge off your temper.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my temper,’ she panted. ‘That woman insulted me, and those men—’

‘Are soldiers, lass. They don’t come across too many educated female slaves. It was nothing personal. To them, one slave is as good as another.’ He reached across her to collect her white undergown, and she felt the brief blanketing warmth of him before he sat up to wring the water out of the cloth. She would have moved away, but her limbs ached and, even when he rolled her on to her back, there was nothing she could do except to snatch the wet cloth from him to hide herself from his examination. It fell upon her lower half, and he would not let her spread it further, taking her wrist away up on to the next step while she clung to the fabric, feeling her panic rise at what he intended.

‘This is how I shall be punished, is it?’ she whispered. ‘For a man to see me like this is shameful to me, sir. Please … let me up.’

It was an argument Quintus declined. ‘Too late to go into all that, lass,’ he said. ‘It’s enough that you’ve started to earn your keep.’ His eyes, however, followed the path of his hand as he leaned over her, watching the water swirl softly over her breasts, leaving a silvery sheen over the glowing skin.

Her face moved sharply aside as he caressed the exotic peaks, smoothed and supported by the water, while her mind clung to the last vestiges of shame and battled against the incredible sensations under the hand that owned her. Like a slow consuming fire, halting her breath, suspending time, melting her aching limbs, his possessive hand made its own sensuous journey over the exposed parts of her body, stroking and tenderly kneading where a masseur would never have ventured, touching and teasing until she writhed and cried out, drawing up her knees.

Turning to face him, she found that his dripping wet hair was near her lips and that it was his mouth she could feel over her nipple, licking and lapping between gently squeezing fingers. Her instinct told her she must forbid it, protest, fight for her virtue. But it was too late, for nothing could persuade her that it was not what she wanted, or that her body had not already begun its own urgent response, beyond her experience, beyond her permission. His hair made dagger-points upon his strong neck, and she could breathe his exertions, see the working of his smooth cheek, the spiked lashes and straight nose. The danger of her position flooded back to her as he raised his head and looked into her eyes, giving her the chance to take control. ‘Well, Princess?’ he said, huskily. ‘Still shamed? Was that on sufferance, or do I detect a different note in that cry?’

Pulling at her captured wrist, she turned on him the full glare of her eyes that caught the nearest lamplight, green as the water. ‘You will detect whatever you wish, Roman, I don’t doubt it. Now you’ve had your pleasure at my expense, let me go. I was right—you are no better than them.’

‘I could curb that sharp tongue of yours, barbarian. That I could do. Perhaps another time.’ He placed his hands under her arms, levering her up, and it was then she saw the swelling on the inside of his knee and what looked like a wound less than a year old, but still inflamed and unhealthy. She was pulled to her feet, and there was more to be seen on one shoulder, a pink ribbon of scar tissue she’d not noticed before. So, that was why he needed to visit the healing spring at Aquae Sulis. He had been injured and had hidden it from her well, until now.

Trembling, and shaken as much by what had just happened as by what had gone before, she stood with her back to him, wrestling with the wet linen that was all she had to cover herself. But with an arm over her shoulder, he took it from her, wrapping her in a cocoon of dry toga, deftly winding it round and round before lifting her into his arms, helpless as a swaddled babe, and carrying her out of the bath-house into the night.

She kept her eyes closed, and although she heard voices, she chose not to see the outraged stare of the Lady Aurelia, or the way that her eyes, in one rapacious glance, took in the sight of the Tribune’s glistening nakedness. Nor did she see the envious expressions of the male guests who had gathered in the corridor more out of curiosity than for social reasons. No, too much was occupying Brighid’s mind for her to make any sense of the Tribune’s remark about earning her keep. Her brother had appeared, but what would be his plan for her? Would she be sold before they could make a run for home? Or would the Tribune keep her as his unusual woman, and was that decision already known to Florian, who had begun calling her domina? Mistress.

Questions regarding her virtue hung in the balance, decisions that only a day or two ago she would have placed firmly at the Roman’s door, but were now also hers. Wrapped in his toga, carried close to him, her body still held the touch of his hands and lips, challenging all the long-held rules about the sanctity of a princess. He had already violated those rules with very little regard for her feelings, which he knew. How long would it be before her plan to find Helm became pointless? And how much would it cost her, if it did? Would her brother believe that she was still a virgin, after this? Would anyone?

The change of air pressure made her aware of her surroundings, the lamplit room, her sewing on the day-bed, and no one except the Tribune’s slave to scurry in with her cast-off clothes and to scurry back out again with the wet linen. There was no sign of Florian or Math, so no one to witness the way her parcelled body was placed on the edge of the sleeping-couch to sit helplessly upright while Quintus sat behind her, enclosing her with his long legs.

‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.

‘Your hair.’

‘I can do that.’

‘Yes, so can I.’

Fuming, she suffered his fumbling fingers on her head and felt the fall of thick wet locks over her shoulders, the relief on her scalp as the loosening began. She was obliged to co-operate when he pulled her head round to look at him. ‘Stop your mewing, barbarian,’ he cried, ‘and think yourself fortunate to suffer no worse than this. I knew the Lady Aurelia might send for you, and I knew what your reaction would be when she did. Firebrand. I did not, however, expect you to hurl insults at her. Show off your learning, perhaps, but no slave insults a lady if she wants to keep the hide on her back. If you wish to get out of this house in one piece, lass, you’d better stay close and do as I bid you.’

‘She would not persecute another man’s slave, surely?’

‘Accidentally, she could maim you for life, my innocent. Believe me.’ His lips were only inches away, and she knew by his darkening eyes that he yearned for her mouth and that he was about to take advantage of her again. ‘And that would be a pity,’ he whispered.

‘Would it? Why?’

‘Because, Princess, we have several more stops ahead of us when your presence as my woman will serve its intended purpose. That’s why.’

‘What, to dress up like a mime artist and pretend.’

‘To warm my bed at night. That’s your purpose. Get used to it.’ His mouth closed over hers before she could complete her scathing reply, and the strong arm across her back made her aware that it was time for his needs to be met, instead of hers.

Since that chastening kiss in the wagon, bestowed, she thought, with more annoyance than desire, the taste of his mouth was only a fleeting memory amongst all the other first-time experiences at which most women of her age would have been well versed. Even so, Brighid had begun to realise that more protests would count for nothing and that there was perhaps a limit to the fury she could maintain. Tribal rules were one thing, but her personal safety was another, and the latter was by no means a foregone conclusion. The Roman’s purpose for her could, she knew, easily be satisfied by another woman, if she herself proved to be too troublesome. Until she and Math could devise a plan, she would do best to keep up the same frosty acceptance of her predicament.

But this was easier said than done when the Tribune’s kiss swept her much further than she could have imagined. Having witnessed only the rough-and-tumble—and, frankly, unappetizing—slobberings of village lovers and her father’s nightly coupling in the next partition to hers, she had never looked forward to this kind of intimacy. It took almost no time at all for her to revise this notion when the warm searching of his mouth over hers obliterated every other feeling, every qualm or protest, every discomfort of being imprisoned and unable to move. That she was being used was certain, but was there not something liberating about being helpless in this situation? Released from having to struggle, or from active participation, she could do no more than savour every sensation, drown in the warm scent of his skin, taste the sweetness of his breath while his lips drank from hers.

She was tipped and moved in the sea of her hair, glimpsing through half-closed eyes fragments of light and dark that blurred into blissful nothing at each kiss. He lay over her, enclosing her body with his, kissing her throat above the collar, her eyelids, sparing her nothing after the exertions of their watery chase. At last, he pulled her into the bend of his body, her back to his front, sighing noisily into the mass of her damp hair. She believed it was a sigh of exhaustion, but therein lay her innocence. Nevertheless, before she fell asleep, she gave a quick word of thanks to Brigantia for the presence of a very long toga that had kept her chaste for another night.