‘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 her
self 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.’
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