Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  Praise for

  Juliet Landon

  THE RAKE’S UNCONVENTIONAL MISTRESS

  ‘Landon’s understanding of the social mores and language of the era flows through the pages …’

  —RT Book Reviews

  A SCANDALOUS MISTRESS

  ‘.sensual and emotion-filled read.’

  —RT Book Reviews

  HIS DUTY, HER DESTINY

  ‘Landon has written a titillating and entertaining battle of the sexes, one in which readers cannot help but take sides—both of them.’

  —RT Book Reviews

  THE BOUGHT BRIDE

  ‘Landon carefully creates the atmosphere of the eleventh century, incorporating intriguing historical details.’

  —RT Book Reviews

  THE KNIGHT’S CONQUEST

  ‘A feisty heroine, a heroic knight, an entertaining battle of wills and plenty of colourful history flavour this tale, making it a delightful one-night read.’

  —RT Book Reviews

  ‘Captives are rarely in a position to bargain about their future, and you’re no different, princess or not. You are my slave. Better get used to it.’

  ‘Then it would have been better to let me die at Eboracum with my maid, Roman. That way I would have been free.’ Throwing off the blanket, she stood up in one swift unbending of her body, intending to put more distance between them.

  The soft mattress hampered her feet—the curve of the canvas was not designed for her height—and the long reach of Quintus’s arm caught her wrist in an iron grip, pulling her off-balance. Furiously she tried to throw him off, her eyes blazing with green fire. ‘No man may touch me!’ she yelled, competing with the roar outside.

  ‘Then that’s another thing you’d better get used to, Princess High and Mighty.’

  About the Author

  JULIET LANDON’s keen interest in art and history, both of which she used to teach, combined with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favourite occupation. She is particularly interested in researching the early medieval and Regency periods, and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Her heart’s home is in her native North Yorkshire, but now she lives happily in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.

  Previous novels by the same author:

  ONE NIGHT IN PARADISE**

  THE WIDOW’S BARGAIN

  THE BOUGHT BRIDE

  HIS DUTY, HER DESTINY

  THE WARLORD’S MISTRESS

  A SCANDALOUS MISTRESS*

  DISHONOUR AND DESIRE*

  THE RAKE’S UNCONVENTIONAL MISTRESS*

  MARRYING THE MISTRESS

  SCANDALOUS INNOCENT

  (collaboration with the National Trust)

  *Ladies of Paradise Road

  **linked to Ladies of Paradise Road trilogy

  Author Note

  For many years I longed to set a story in Bath, one of England’s most ancient and beautiful cities in the West Country, developed by the Romans for its famous natural hot springs. Like other natural phenomena, the springs were venerated by earlier Celtic tribes, but after the Roman invasion the place became known as Aquae Sulis (Waters of Sulis, the presiding Celtic god). Excavations have revealed exactly how the Romans built temples and healing pools to channel the waters, creating a spa for visitors from far and wide to bathe and make offerings in return for all kinds of help. It must have been an early example of a tourist town, with all amenities. The name of Minerva, the Roman goddess of healing, was then linked to that of Sulis (as Sulis Minerva) so as not to offend the local deities, of whom the northern goddess Brigantia is yet another counterpart.

  Tracing the history of places back through the ages—like Bath, Lincoln and York, for instance—can be both fascinating and rewarding when so much has been discovered through archaeology to show us how people lived. The social history is what I find most interesting—particularly the various ways in which ordinary people sought cures for their ills through nature, in discoveries that reveal how closely their daily needs and hopes resembled our own. I hope that my story of how Romans and Celts co-existed during those difficult times of occupation will be the beginning of deeper research by the reader.

  The Roman army packed up and left England two hundred years after this story, leaving our island with Latinised place-names that have since changed to the ones we know today. So Eboracum is now York, Danum is Doncaster, Lindum is Lincoln, Corinium Dobunnorum is Cirencester, Aquae Sulis is Bath, and Corieltauvorum is Leicester. Other places mentioned, like Margidunum, have now disappeared, being little more than staging-posts along the main highway.

  SLAVE PRINCESS

  Juliet Landon

  www.millsandboon.com.au

  Chapter One

  Eboracum—A. D. 208

  The slapping of cupped hands on oiled skin echoed off the stone walls of the gymnasium like lukewarm applause. It was interrupted, however, by a bad-tempered grunt. ‘Steady, man! That’s still sore.’

  Fingertips explored a pink scar streaking diagonally like a ribbon across the muscled shoulder. It was healing well. ‘Where, sir? Just there?’ The fingers fondled.

  ‘Ouch! Yes, you imbecile!’

  The slave grinned and continued his kneading.

  ‘If you were not such a good masseur, I’d have you flogged,’ the deep voice grumbled into the towelled pillow.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the slave replied, hearing a smile in the empty threat. Quintus Tiberius Martial was not a soft touch in any sense, but nor was he given to floggings and beatings. Florian had been in the Tribune’s service since he was twelve years old and so far had only suffered tongue-lashings for his misdemeanours.

  The Tribune’s back was long, tapering and sculpted, divided by a valley with hills and mounds of hard muscle rising on each side, the Titanic shoulders extending to arms as strong as tree branches.

  His dice-playing towel-wrapped companions looked up from their game to smile at the tetchiness. ‘Time you had some exercise,’ one of them volunteered, softly.

  From the slab, Quintus opened one dark eye to glare at his friend. ‘I’ve been exercising all morning, if you recall. Where were you?’

  ‘Not that kind,’ the friend said, winking at his partner.

  The partner moved one of the pieces on the board and shuffled himself deeper into his towel. ‘Horizontal, he means,’ he said, helpfully.

  ‘Yes … well … this is probably as horizontal as I’m going to get until I’m properly mended,’ Quintus mumbled, crossly.

  ‘Rubbish!’ said the friend, wiping the sweat from his face with one forearm. ‘You are mended. Isn’t he, Florian?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. I believe our forthcoming trip to the hot springs in the south will complete the cure, but I see no reason why the Tribune should not take—’

  ‘Oh, spare me the lecture and get on with your pummelling, lad,’ Quintus returned sharply. ‘One punishment at a time, for pity’s sake.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Florian, lifting the towel from his master’s brawny thighs. ‘Will you turn, sir, if you please?’

  Quintus obliged, staring up at the thick cloud of steam that hung in the curve of the vaulted ceiling. There were sounds of splashing and the deep bellow of men’s voices, the grunts of effort as heavy weights hit the floor, a distant laugh, the patter of bare feet on stone and the accompanying pants as two men wrestled over on the other side of the steaming pool. He caught the whiff of almond and lavender oil as Florian set to work on his chest. He closed his eyes, knowing that his two companions, Tullus and Lucan, would not let the matter rest there. His shoulder had responded well to treatment, but the damage to his knee was more serious, and it wa
s that which had concluded his brilliant career as a military tribune and steered him instead towards administration. His abilities as an expert in the imperial system of record-keeping, accounting and taxes had been recognised even before he was fully recovered, and in record time the Emperor Severus had placed him in his personal service as Provincial Procurator directly responsible to him, not to the Governor of the northern provinces whose hospitality they were at present both using and abusing.

  As a respected and successful cavalry officer, Quintus had wanted nothing more than a soldier’s life, and although his new position was both challenging and demanding, and lucrative, it could never compare to the heady excitement of command, continuous movement and brotherhood.

  ‘We have your best interests at heart, Quintus my friend,’ said Lucan. ‘This expedition down to Aquae Sulis will take quite a few days, and you know what will happen every time we’re offered a night’s hospitality.’

  ‘I’ve never known you to protest at an excess of hospitality,’ Quintus said, gruffly. ‘The girls you’re offered are never refused, if my memory serves me. What’s the problem?’

  ‘You are,’ Lucan said. ‘How many ways do you know of refusing? No, thank you. Not tonight. Too tired. My leg hurts. My shoulder is sore.’

  ‘You’re bound to give some offence,’ said Tullus, nodding.

  The two friends were Assistant Procurators, junior administrators in Quintus’s office of scribes, secretaries and accountants. Younger by a few years than his thirty, they had no plans for marriage, mainly due to the roving nature of the job, but their experience of women from the countries through which they had passed in the Emperor’s service was, to say the least, extensive. No one understood better than they how hospitality worked on long journeys, how it was always assumed that a single male guest would need a companion for the night. Slaves were an ever-present commodity to be used at the master’s discretion, and for Quintus to be continually plied with this amenity while he was away could become something of a nuisance.

  In his army days, he would have thought nothing of it, but these last few months had been physically hampered by pain and some anger at the turn of events, and though his recuperation had involved a punishing regime of exercises to tone his body, he had allowed himself no rewards. Not even the trip to Aquae Sulis was solely for his health; there was some investigating to be done, too.

  ‘Giving offence,’ he responded, ‘has never kept me awake at night.’ Flinging aside the hip-covering towel, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the slab, causing Florian to skip to one side. He ran a hand through his damp dark hair and scowled at his feet. ‘I’ll take a woman when I’m ready,’ he said. ‘I shall not be stuck for excuses.’

  Lucan was tall and as lithe as a panther, his nose handsomely hooked, his mouth wide and often smiling, his Greek ancestry enchantingly obvious. Unwinding himself from his towel, he stood up to face his friend, giving the towel a kick, his eyes laughing with a distinct lack of sympathy. ‘You won’t need any excuses if you take a woman with you,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t have to be anyone in particular. Just for show. A slave will do, as long as she’s well bred. One you can pass off as your woman. A companion. She needn’t sleep with you if you don’t wish it. You just let it be known that you’re provided for, thank you very much. No more offers. No refusals. No offence. Everyone happy.’

  Ready to dismiss the suggestion out of hand, Quintus held his tongue, recognising an element of good advice. Apart from a few romantic encounters, the hospitality to which Lucan referred had never been an issue in the army where women were taken, paid for and left on a more business-like basis than in civilian life. Outside the barracks, any single, wealthy, good-looking man of equestrian rank with the personal friendship of the Emperor, injured or not, was quickly regarded as husband material for the daughters, nieces and widows of good family. Already Quintus Tiberius Martial had attracted some attention from the women of the royal court surrounding Julia Domna, wife of the Emperor Severus. Clearly his two friends were beginning to think he was using his injuries as an excuse, though the fact was that his knee gave him more trouble than he would admit, and when the prestigious office had been offered, he had taken it immediately rather than see it given to someone else. The demands of such a high position were of a different order from the demands of making love, and Quintus had no wish to start making a fool of himself in a department at which he had always excelled.

  Tullus pushed the game-board aside in disgust and stood up, vigorously tousling his nut-brown hair with the towel, emerging red-faced and serious. ‘He’s right,’ he said, eyeing his superior’s long limbs, noting how he sidled off the slab, gingerly testing the knee with the swollen joint. This man, Tullus thought, was a prime specimen, almost in the peak of fitness, with an intellect as bright as any he’d ever worked with, darkly good looking with a heavy-lidded insolence and steady eyes that made women blush and stammer. He would not be chaste for much longer, thought Tullus. ‘The Empress has some high-class slaves in her service,’ he said. ‘You have only to ask her. Just for the trip to Aquae Sulis and back. We shall be off tomorrow.’

  ‘I shan’t have time,’ Quintus said, dismissing Florian with a nod. ‘The Emperor wants to see me this afternoon. More instructions.’

  ‘More? I thought everything was arranged,’ said Tullus over his shoulder. He was poised on the edge of the pool, studying the ripples and reflections.

  ‘So did I,’ said Quintus, joining him. ‘He was pleased to be mysterious, but I believe he wants someone else to join the party.’

  Standing between them, Lucan groaned. ‘Oh, Jupiter! Not another aged cripple with wobbly knees who needs spa treatment. We’ll never get there if we’re on escort duty to—’ His protest was cut short by a bellow as he was shoved unceremoniously into the water, hitting it with a loud smack and having no time to surface before two hefty male bodies landed on top of him, sending a tidal wave over the floor to wash Florian’s toes. Steam swirled around flailing limbs, engulfing them.

  ‘The Tribune Quintus Tiberius Martial,’ snapped the guard, opening the door of the Emperor’s newly whitewashed office.

  Quintus stepped forward, his nose wrinkling at the pungent smell of medication that clung to the soldierly white-haired man who, despite the warmth of the April day, wore a fur-lined cloak and a pair of white-and-brown striped socks. ‘Your Excellency,’ Quintus said, bowing and waiting for the Emperor’s attention to lift from the scroll he was reading.

  The tube of papyrus sprang upwards with a rattle. ‘Ah, Quintus! All prepared? Right,’ he went on, not waiting for any denial, ‘so I’ve had funds set aside for you in that box over there …’ he pointed with the scroll to a wooden brass-bound chest ‘… and there’ll be a two-man guard on it while you’re in transit. That’s for expenses. And here’s the final list of names and residences for the journey. They’re expecting you all the way from here to Lindum, Corinium, Aquae Sulis and all points in between, but it’s for you to decide the pace and where to pitch camp for the night.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  Quintus had been in the Emperor’s inner sanctum many times since their arrival at Eboracum earlier in the year and was used to the sparse functional surroundings favoured by him and his two sons. As a Lybian, Severus found the harsh British climate not at all to his liking, but since his recent visit to Hadrian’s Wall, even further north, his chest complaint had been responding to treatment. Something, thought Quintus, must have agreed with him, apart from victory.

  ‘How’s the knee today?’

  ‘Bearable, sir, I thank you.’

  ‘Good. So you won’t mind taking along an extra passenger tomorrow, I take it.’

  As if the entourage was not big enough already with attendants and aides, servants and slaves, bodyguards and bald Greek lawyers. ‘Just the one, sir?’

  ‘Ah … no. She’ll probably want to take her maid along with her, too.’

  Inwardly, Quintus groaned.
‘A woman, sir? Not the Lady Julia Domna, surely?’

  Severus sighed and rested his behind on a white marble table with gilded lions’ legs, his dark eyes straying briefly to the door and back to his sandals. ‘No, not my wife.’ His voice was subdued. The Empress would not have approved of his plan.

  Quintus wondered whether there would be any point in objecting, but suspected not. Women always slowed a journey down, one reason why he’d been disinclined to accept his friends’ suggestion.

  The Emperor wriggled his toes. ‘That battle last week,’ he said. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir. You killed the chieftain. It was well done.’

  ‘And if he’d been the only chieftain, Quintus, it would have been even better. But as you know, the Brigantes are the biggest and most powerful collection of tribes in Britain, even scrapping amongst themselves for dominance, and as soon as we remove one chieftain, another springs up in his place like bloody mushrooms. This time we have two of them. Sons of the last one. But we took the daughter captive.’

  ‘I didn’t know that, sir.’

  The Governor of the northern province where the massive Brigantian tribes made such a nuisance of themselves had sent to the Emperor of Rome for help to put them in their place, once and for all. Severus, his sons, wife and a huge army had come post-haste from victories in Gaul and had already achieved some success.

  ‘I kept it quiet,’ Severus replied. ‘On the night the chieftain was killed, a party of our men sneaked up to their hill-fort to torch it while their backs were turned. They came back with the daughter and her maid. But I can’t keep them here indefinitely, Quintus. My eldest son is eager to bait them in the arena, but that would be asking for more trouble than they’re worth. I’d have the whole of the Brigantes united against us like a pack of ravening wolves. Subduing them one at a time is enough without provoking them still further. I wish he’d understand that.’