Slave Princess. Juliet Landon

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      Biting back the angry tears, she held the shawl tightly across her as a cool breeze lifted the underside of the oak leaves above them, lending a sense of urgency to the unloading and carrying, the pegging out of canvas, the tethering and feeding of horses, always the first to be tended. Fires were being kindled with the fuel they carried with them, every man to his task, working like cogs in a machine. Other wagons had been unhitched and arranged like a fortress, and she saw that they were loaded with baggage with no space inside for sleeping, like hers. She hoped it would be like this every night, with a view of the sky through the doorway.

      From round one side of the wagon strode three men, a white-fringed cloak identifying the one who had released her at Eboracum, whose name she would not ask. Over his shoulder he glanced her way, then, pausing in his stride, he turned for a longer look with an expression that gave nothing away except that he had taken in every detail of her appearance. Nodding his approval to the two guards, he rejoined his two companions, their questions raising a deep laugh from all three, setting up Brighid’s hackles for no good reason except guesswork. It had been her chance to demand the return of her possessions and she had not taken it.

      Cursing herself, she turned her back on the scene and began to tidy her bed, folding the blankets and arranging the cushions the way the little maid had been used to doing. Some of the limited space was taken up by a stout wooden chest, locked, bolted and barred. She sat on it and waited, listening to the activities outside, her eyes darkening to grey-blue in the fading light.

      It was the first time she had taken a good look at the man, their first meeting having been disadvantaged in every way. Now she had seen the full length of him wearing a short tunic instead of the longer purple-banded toga that had given her a hint of his rank. Only senators, tribunes and knights, and a few others, were allowed that privilege. She doubted if he was old enough to be a senator, nor did she think one of that rank would be camping out under rain-filled clouds, but rather in some luxurious villa with all the bowing and scraping of overwhelmed hosts and their wives. She judged him to be less than thirty, obviously a military man, going by his close leather breeches that clung to muscled calves and thighs, stopping short of his ankles. He looked as if the day’s riding suited him well, for his thick hair was windswept across his forehead like an unruly mop of silk with the gloss of a raven’s wing. He was, she admitted reluctantly, much better looking than Helm; had the two men changed places, she could quickly have learned to like him and to suffer his hands on her body. But now there was no room in her life for that kind of sentiment, nor had there ever been since she realised the political nature of her position.

      If only she knew what the future held for her. If only her possessions had not been removed, then an attempt at escape might have been worth planning. But without shoes and only a linen tunic and a shawl to her name, no identifying ornaments, and no idea where she was, any plans would have to wait.

      ‘Where are my clothes?’ she said as soon as Florian climbed in, balancing a bowl of steaming broth in one hand.

      His smile remained. ‘You’re sitting on them,’ he said.

      ‘What?’ She swivelled on the chest. ‘In here? And my ornaments, too?’

      ‘In there, with your shoes and clothes. Yes.’

      ‘I want to wear them.’

      ‘I expect you will, when my master decides.’ He took a spoon from inside his tunic, passed it to her and told her to eat while it was still warm. It was the first solid food she had eaten for over a week and, by its comforting warmth, the questions uppermost in her mind were released. Presumably to make sure she ate it, Florian stayed with her as the sky darkened ominously, the only source of light being the crackling fire outside that sent flickering shadows to dance across the canvas cover.

      ‘Who is he, your master?’ she said, passing the bowl back to him.

      He spooned up the last leftover mouthful and fed it to her like a mother bird. ‘He is Quintus Tiberius Martial,’ he said, proudly rolling the words around his tongue. ‘Tribune of Equestrian rank—that’s quite high, you know—Provincial Procurator in the service of the Roman Emperor Septimus Severus. And before you ask me any more questions, young lady, you had better know that I am duty bound to report them to my master. I am the Tribune’s masseur, and I’ve been told to offer you my services, should you wish it.’

      ‘Thank you, Florian. It may be a little too soon for that.’

      ‘An apple, then?’ He pulled one out of his tunic where the spoon had come from, like a magician.

      She shook her head, watching him unfurl, reminding her of a fern in spring.

      ‘It will rain tonight. Don’t worry about the canvas. It won’t leak.’ He looked round the wagon. ‘I’m impressed. You’ve been tidying up. We’ll make a handy slave out of you yet, I believe.’

      ‘That is one thing I shall never be, believe me,’ she said, severely.

      ‘Then try convincing the Tribune,’ he said, heading for the opening. ‘I think he’s rather set on the idea. But I told you that yesterday. Goodnight, Princess.’

      She would like to have hurled the apple at his head, but a sudden wave of tiredness swept over her and it was all she could do to fall on to her pile of sheepskins and close her eyes against the murmurs and laughter outside.

      The roar of rain upon canvas woke her. That, and the dim yellow glow inside the wagon, and the feeling that she was not alone. Instantly awake, her hand searched for the dagger that was always beside her. The habit died hard. It was not there.

      ‘Sit up,’ said a deep voice. ‘I need to talk to you.’

      He was sitting on the chest, the smooth bronzed skin of his body almost aflame in the light from the lantern, his arms resting along his thighs, great shoulders hunched behind the head that hung low between them, his face turned in her direction. It was clear he’d been studying her for some time, for now he straightened up and stretched like a cat. He wore calf-length under-breeches of white linen, and his hair was damp-black as if the rain had caught him. And in the confined space of the wagon, he was much too close for comfort.

      Grabbing at the blanket, Brighid pulled it to her chin and hauled herself up against the cushion. ‘I don’t wish to talk to you,’ she retorted, breathlessly.

      ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t. I need to talk to you,’ he repeated.

      ‘Yes, you do have some explaining to do. How long does this journey last? And when can I have my possessions returned?’

      ‘I don’t need to explain myself to slaves,’ he replied, looking her over again, measuring her up with his insolent eyes.

      ‘I am not a slave!’

      ‘Oh, don’t let’s hear all that again. Florian’s had enough of it and I don’t intend to hear it. The facts are, woman, that you have no choice in the matter. The Emperor has ordered me to take you off his hands and to do what I like with you; as far as I’m concerned, that means selling you on to the next slave merchant we meet on the way.’

      ‘You wouldn’t do that! No … you couldn’t!’ she cried.

      ‘I assure you, lass, I would and I can. I don’t have a place for high-and-mighty princesses in my line of work and I don’t intend you to spoil my holiday, either. Lindum will be the end of the line for you. Our next stop down the road. We’ll СКАЧАТЬ