Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  She wanted to plead with him not to go, to stay here with her. Her thumb brushed tenderly along his dark eyebrow. ‘Be careful,’ she whispered. ‘Be on your guard. Those priests are professionals, remember.’

  ‘So am I, sweetheart,’ he murmured, taking her thumb and kissing it. ‘Don’t be concerned for me. With this to think on, I shall do nothing foolish, believe me. I’ll be back in the morning.’

  Florian and the guard returned from the town of Aquae Sulis later that afternoon with the disappointing news that Math had not visited the lodgings. His mysterious disappearance affected them all. Nor had there been any sighting of him at Watercombe, in spite of the searches of the seven others. If she had been allowed to follow her premonitions, Brighid would have packed her belongings and left immediately, but with Math still missing that was impossible. They would have to stay until he was found.

  ‘Can’t you demand to have the place searched?’ Brighid said as the light began to fade. ‘You have the authority. And what does it matter whether he’s seen or not? Somebody’s seen him, obviously.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Quintus said. ‘If he doesn’t appear by morning, I’ll have the place turned inside out. This is getting ridiculous.’

  Knowing he would keep his promise, Brighid had to be content.

  Arranging to meet Brighid for dinner, Tullus and Lucan accompanied Quintus to the temple after their friendly bath, which sharpened their hunger, as usual, but served only as a source of irritation to the one who had agreed to fast. There was really no need, the men told him, if he did not intend to co-operate in the experience. But Brighid knew better. They would smell food on his breath. There would be other signs, too, too delicate to explain. He had to be seen to be hungry and Quintus agreed with her.

  In their apartment, Brighid collected her toilet kit and went with Florian to the women’s baths where high-pitched laughter and squeals echoed round the vaulted ceilings, and the slap of sandals on wet tiles mingled with the clapping of palms upon clients’ oily backs. The sight of a handsome young male slave in the women’s bath-house caused not the slightest concern, and Florian’s natural discretion helped him to fade into the background until Brighid needed him, exactly like a maid.

  There was a young female slave there, however, who was bold enough to ask him about the young man who had attended the Princess the night before, a dark-haired young man with the bent nose and soft eyes. He had indicated, she said, that he might be there again tonight.

  Florian’s aching heart shone through his eyes, and he was forced to swallow quite hard to keep his voice level. ‘He’s … er … gone missing,’ he whispered, having neither the inclination nor the ability to hide his despair. ‘Been missing since last night. You’ve not seen him?’

  The girl, a pretty, short-haired, fair-skinned lass, turned even paler, chewing at her bottom lip. ‘No,’ she said, her blue-grey eyes clouding over with concern. ‘Oh, please, beloved Sulis, don’t let them …’ Quickly, she placed the back of her hand to her mouth, but not before Florian had heard.

  ‘Don’t let them … what? Who are they? You know something.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. Not about your friend, anyway.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Young men disappear. That’s all I know. Look,’ she said, matching his pleading dark eyes with her blue ones, ‘I shall get into trouble for talking, but I come here with my mistress every year and she warns us not to go anywhere alone, girls as well as boys.’

  ‘Girls, too?’

  ‘They don’t disappear but, well … see for yourself.’ She nodded towards a group of young women who had just entered the hot room swathed in white towels, one of whom he recognised. ‘She was a slave here last year, and now look what’s happened to her.’

  ‘But that’s Dora, the Lady Helena’s friend.’

  ‘The Lady Helena’s slave, young man. They’ve married her off because her mistress won’t have her living here once she’s had the baby.’

  ‘Why not? Doesn’t she like them?’

  The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Because,’ she whispered, ‘it’s her husband’s.’

  ‘Valens?’

  ‘Shh! Yes, him,’ she muttered, hardly moving her lips. ‘So tell your mistress to watch her back. And her front.’

  ‘I will. But are you telling me that Dora was forced to marry?’

  Her frown was pitying. ‘Where have you been all your life? Don’t you have any women slaves in your house? Where’d you get the idea that a woman slave has any choice in the matter? You must know what happens when they have infants the owner doesn’t want?’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘Up on the hill beyond the gardens there’s a clearing in the trees, and row after row of tiny graves. Unmarked. They didn’t all die naturally, but because they were not wanted by the father and his pals. All female slaves working here are used in the same way, like it or not. That one over there.’ she indicated Dora with a tip of her head ‘… is one of the fortunate ones because she was a personal maid to her mistress. A husband was found for her. She’ll be able to take her infant home.’

  ‘Perhaps he fell for her. He must be a hero to take on another man’s child.’

  ‘Or perhaps he owes Valens a favour.’

  ‘Yes, or the Lady Helena,’ Florian said. ‘I don’t suppose you could find my friend, could you? I’ve looked everywhere I dare.’

  ‘Is he your lover?’ When Florian nodded, she continued, ‘I thought so. It’s all right, we only chatted to pass the time. He was not interested in me, only as someone to chat to. He’s very nice.’

  ‘Yes. Could you help? You might know other places to look.’

  ‘Yes, I know lots of secret places.’ She smiled, mischievously. ‘I’ll see what I can do. And don’t ask me why they disappear. None of them have ever come back to say what happened, and, unless you come back to Watercombe year after year, you don’t realise that it is happening. Slaves run off all the time and pilgrims collapse for all kinds of reasons.’

  ‘In the temple? At night?’

  ‘Oh, regularly. Why?’

  ‘My master’s there. Oh, it’s all right, he’s strong.’

  ‘Your mistress is waving to you. Don’t forget your towel.’ She held it to him as he stood, noticing his fine straight legs and muscular calves.

  ‘Thank you. You’re very pretty.’

  She smiled, wondering what compliments he paid to his lover.

  Florian’s first impulse was to tell the Princess what he’d just learnt about the terrible fate of slaves’ infants, wrenched from their mothers’ arms like so much detritus left over from men’s lust. The girl was right. He had lived a sheltered life as the Tribune’s masseur and what he had heard sickened him to the stomach, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the way men treated vulnerable females, devoid of any feeling or responsibility. Dora was indeed fortunate to have been spared, for whatever reason. But the Princess was in a hurry, scarcely noticing Florian’s silence as being in any way different from his earlier melancholy, so the chance to speak did not come and Florian had to resign himself to waiting until she would stand still and listen.

  There was also his need to inform her about the strange disappearance of men like Max, but what was there to tell the Princess except that it was no new occurrence at Watercombe? How would that help? Max had not been in the temple, and not for one moment did he believe that his master was in danger of collapsing there overnight. No one had discussed with him, Florian, exactly what the temple experience involved, so there was no reason for him to be more alarmed for the Tribune than he was for his beloved Max.

  The route from the bath-house to the rear of the guests’ apartments was the one Brighid had taken to the laundry the day before, past a series of smaller rooms and curtained cubicles where perfumes mingled and wafted along the corridor and lamps flickered in the draught. As the two people most committed to finding Math, his sister and his lover, Brighid and Florian found it mutually excusable
to ignore caution and to push aside a curtain here and there, just in case a figure reclining on a masseur’s couch might be Math, drugged. Or worse.

  One room, slightly larger than the others, had a single lamp burning on a ledge, an open wax tablet and stylus on a table, an open basket-work container beside it and another one beyond, closed with a leather strap. ‘Keep guard while I take a look,’ Brighid said, not needing to explain.

  ‘Be quick, domina,’ said Florian. ‘Someone is still working here.’

  The open basket was half-full of beeswax candles, rolls of gauze and linen bags of ingredients that Brighid easily identified by their perfume: frankincense, musk and spikenard. She was just about to unbuckle the strap of the other container when Florian ducked his head under the curtain. ‘Domina! Quick!’ he whispered.

  It was too late. No sooner had she stood up than the curtain was rattled to one side to reveal Valens holding Florian by the scruff of his neck, pulling him inside and steering him towards the wall. ‘Stay there, whelp,’ he said. ‘Princess. How can I help you? Is it perfumes you require?’

  For the first time, Brighid became aware of her appearance since leaving the bath-house, scantily dressed ready to prepare for dinner, her hair damp and tumbled, her skin glowing against the gold collar and earrings. Her expression of defiance was meant to hide her acute embarrassment. She had not expected anyone to see her like this, least of all Valens. ‘Thank you, no. I have to admit that my curiosity gets the better of me sometimes. The curtains make these little places so easily accessible, don’t they? Now, I hope you’ll excuse me. I must dress for dinner.’

  ‘Plenty of time, Princess. I also have an insatiable curiosity to find out what is concealed behind fabric coverings. In fact, my curiosity has plagued me ever since we met.’

  ‘Perhaps another time, sir. If you wouldn’t mind …?’

  But Valens had no intention, now he had her alone, of releasing her so easily, and he stood squarely before her only an arm’s length away while the backs of her legs pressed against the open basket, preventing her from moving. Over the man’s wide shoulders she could see Florian’s scared eyes staring at her before looking sideways to find an escape, if only she could hold the man’s attention. ‘I’m sorry you have been plagued, sir. I assure you, there’s nothing more to me than meets the eye. Is that what you meant?’ she said.

  Slowly, with feline stealth, Florian moved towards a curtain on the side wall that appeared to connect this chamber to the next one. And, while she kept her eyes on those of Valens, plotting their insulting journey over every detail of her body they could find, she cursed herself for her stupidity for allowing this predator the chance he’d been waiting for to question her without interference. She steeled herself for his questions, determined to show no warmth, to reply courteously and to give him no opening for a move on her, if he should be so foolish. But he was a man who abused his wife, and who probably had as few morals as her late father. And he declined to answer her question. ‘You were searching for something, Princess?’

  ‘I am a healer, sir. The scents of sandalwood and frankincese drew me in. Is this the room used by the aromatherapist?’

  ‘A healer, you say. And what more are you to the Tribune, I wonder? His slave, that’s obvious. Captured, were you?’

  ‘I am no slave, sir!’ Foolishly, she swallowed his bait and saw the resulting smile in his cold eyes. ‘No man owns me,’ she added, hoping this might explain things.

  The smile stayed, however. ‘Ah, but that’s always going to be a problem, isn’t it? A woman like you should always belong to a man, preferably one who can offer her a permanent home with all the luxuries due to her rank. Does the Tribune offer that? Has he made you an offer yet? Can he protect you against danger while he’s busy with his tax investigations? He is a Provincial Procurator, isn’t he? When he’s not taking the cure, that is.’

  ‘Should you not be directing such questions to the Tribune himself, sir? We’ve hardly known each other long enough to talk about the future.’

  ‘Then let’s talk about the past, Princess. Did you actually get to meet our friend Helm when he was up in the north?’

  She felt the blood drain from her face, sending a cold shiver of fear across her scalp. He knew, but how much had Helm told him? ‘I do not know your friend Helm,’ she said. ‘We have never spoken.’ It was the truth. They had not spoken and she did not know him. His offer had been made to her father.

  So, she thought, since he had made no reference to any offer of marriage made by Helm, he had not been told of it. Which meant that Helm had gone to speak to her father for reasons the Tribune had given, for contributions to an uprising of tribes against the Emperor. Helm had used his offer of marriage as a screen for a more important matter in which Valens was presumably concerned, since he knew about the visit.

  She had seen how a man’s eyes could darken with desire, but this man’s undisguised lust was written in every line of his face, on the tip of his tongue that licked at the corner of his mouth, on his nostrils that flared like a stallion with a mare. Compared to the Tribune, this man resembled a primitive wild boar with no control over his savage instincts. No wonder Helena Coronis sought help from the sacred temple of Sulis, where he was not there to see. What had she ever seen in the man except some kind of security?

  He had made no move towards her and she knew it was because he believed that Florian was still in the room with them, listening to every word, recording every movement. Once he discovered his absence, he would know his time to be limited.

  ‘Which reminds me to ask you, sir,’ she said, ‘why your friend Helm was visiting my father and why he chose to deny it yesterday? You are obviously in his confidence.’

  As if he resented the change of subject, his slight frown and the quick shake of his head came together. ‘Contact with other heads of tribes, I suppose. He’d not want to admit it in front of a Roman Tribune and his sidekicks, would he, in case it was misconstrued as conspiracy. I expect your father was partial to a little conspiracy now and then, Princess? Chieftains usually are, aren’t they?’

  ‘If you mean against the state, sir, I think not. He had enough on his hands fighting local battles to bother his head with national conspiracies. He was never one for giving money away unless it would benefit him personally.’

  ‘Is that so? Then you might like to share a few private words with my friend Helm, Princess. I can arrange it for you.’

  ‘I think not. Your friend is a married man. It would not be seemly and the Tribune would not agree to it.’

  ‘And do you do everything he asks?’ When she hesitated, his eyes strayed again to the gold around her neck, then further down to her breasts as if they were bared to him. ‘You hesitated, Princess. That’s good. I trust you will keep this lad’s mouth firmly shut on what he sees and hears.’ He glanced over his shoulder to where Florian ought to have been. ‘We don’t want …’ Swinging round, he uttered an oath before turning back to Brighid, his eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You knew!’ he purred. ‘Well done. Another time, perhaps. Eh?’

  There was no need for a reply to his implied suggestion, for the clatter of sandals on tiles could be heard approaching, and the murmur of voices asking which one, and where. Turning on his heel, Valens threw aside the curtain just as the corridor filled with men, facing Tullus and Lucan with a hastily assumed smile of surprise that fooled no one. ‘Ah, my friends, you’ve come to spoil our discussion. What a pity. We were arguing the properties of the hot spring that people insist on drinking when they’d be better off bathing in it. But it’s time to eat, Princess, and I’ve kept you. Do forgive me. Enjoy your meal.’ He bowed to Brighid, inviting her to leave his room to suggest that it was she who had intruded on him, not the other way round.

  Brushing past him, she felt his heat, wrinkling her nose at the odour of his lecherous sweat, and she wished there had been time for her to return to the bath-house to wash away the memory of his deeply intrusive eyes. There had
never been a time, she told herself, when she had been more grateful for an interruption, or when she had longed for Quintus more. Asked if she was all right, she could only nod her head. But Tullus felt her shaking as her hand slipped through the crook of his arm, and Lucan could see by her pale green stare and white cheeks that words would come later, when wine would moisten her dry mouth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucan helped himself to another spoonful of succulent vegetables. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘so now we know where we stand.’

  ‘Where?’ said Tullus, laying down his knife. He’d carried it with him since he was a lad: horn-handled and embellished with silver.

  ‘Well,’ said Lucan, ‘our host now knows we’re from the tax office, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He knew that before.’

  ‘Now he’s certain of it. I don’t know what difference it makes, but it might. And for another thing, Helm has told him about his visit to the Princess’s father. So why, I wonder, did Helm bother to deny it?’

  ‘Because I refused to recognise him,’ said Brighid.

  ‘It also indicates,’ said Lucan, choosing not to follow that line, ‘that Valens is involved with Helm’s recruiting conspiracies in some way. What is it that Helm needs for his revolutionary schemes?’