Roman

by Heather Grothaus

  Everyone seemed to be in a rather large hurry.

  Roman looked at Isra, who looked at him.

  “What are we to do?” she asked.

  But he had no time to come up with a reply before the blond-haired Fran appeared near his thigh, a stack of white cloths in her hands.

  “The two of you must have brought us good fortune,” she said and then offered up the material to Roman. “For the queen. It’s not perfect, but it’s all I could lay hand to. It will do for tonight.”

  Roman took the things and turned to give them to Isra. A clatter sounded as something solid fell out of the folds and landed at their feet. When Roman retrieved it and held it aloft, it seemed to be some sort of woven headpiece, coated in plaster and then painted a bright yellow. He turned back to Fran.

  “What are they?”

  “Her costume,” Fran said with a blink. “For the show.”

  “What show?” Isra interjected, leaning forward to look at the woman.

  “Think you anyone at all can just join up with us for nothing, order us about, and disrupt things?” Fran snipped. “We all work. If you don’t intend to keep your word, I suppose you might want to take it up with Asa.”

  She glanced at Roman with something like an apology in her eyes. “The people will be along soon. This will be the first opportunity in days we’ve had to try to earn back some of what that beast has cost us.” Her eyes flicked to Isra for only an instant. “So she might want to hurry along with any further demands she has.” Fran turned and stalked away.

  Roman felt the amateurish headpiece being pulled from his grasp, and when he looked again at Isra, she was climbing down from the cart, the pieces of her costume wadded into one hand as she lowered herself to the ground.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him as she shook out her skirts. “I am taking it up with Asa.” Then she began walking around the little gray donkey.

  Roman stood in the seat, for some reason uneasy about her seeking out the dark-haired leader of the menagerie. “Isra!”

  She halted and looked up at him, her tone calm and accommodating but her fine eyebrows knit together. “Yes, my lord?”

  He looked at her for a moment, not at all sure what he really wanted to say.

  Don’t go to him?

  Stay with me?

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to do,” he said at last, the words sounding weak even to his own ears.

  Her face relaxed a bit and she gave him a smile Roman imagined would be better bestowed upon a child who’d said something clever but naïve.

  “Be not troubled by it, my lord.” Her smile tightened and she turned away, disappearing around the next wagon, seeming completely prepared to take care of the thing herself.

  Roman stared after her, thinking that, unfortunately, she probably was all too well familiar with doing just that.

  Chapter 12

  Isra found van Groen near the back of his paneled wagon, having a tall, elaborate collar adjusted around his neck by a boy in late adolescence. A squire of sorts he appeared, complete with an open satchel at his feet from which spilled boar’s hair brushes, bits of ribbon, a rag stained with blacking.

  “Ah, there she is!” van Groen said as the boy bent to the bag once more, and Asa fussed with the stiff embroidered velvet. “Why aren’t you dressed? You may avail yourself of the privacy of my own wagon if it pleases you.”

  “You did not tell me we would show Kahn today,” Isra said. “You did not tell me the caravan would stop.”

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know, my dear,” he said, stepping toward her and reaching out, as if to take her elbow and lead her to the back of his cart. “It’s not as if we adhere to a schedule. You must dress. There is no time to—”

  “He is not ready.” Isra pulled away from him and stepped back. “And neither am I.”

  Van Groen stopped and seemed to force himself to take a breath, hang a smile on his face.

  “I had no idea we would be granted such an opportunity,” Asa said as the squire approached from behind and began brushing at his tunic. “It is rare that we come across a land holder willing to host us so close to a village. As I’m sure you noticed, the folk were all too eager for entertainment, even if the governing officials of the town were not so hospitable. I don’t know that we will have another such chance to fill our purses before Venice.”

  Isra only stared at him.

  Asa sighed and then looked over his shoulder. “That’s fine, Gunar.” He turned back to Isra as the boy gathered his things. “If you don’t wish to participate this first time, I’m certainly not going to force you.” He held up a long, pale finger, its nail white and rounded past the tip. “However, Kahn will be displayed tonight. If you wish to have any say about how that unfolds”—he glanced at the costume still hanging down in her right hand—“you will get dressed. Quickly,” he added, glancing past her ear for only an instant.

  Isra frowned as he closed the gap between them and grasped her—albeit gently—by the very edges of her shoulders. “Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly, looking into her eyes as he smiled at her. “You are a uniquely beautiful woman who has an amazing way with a magnificent creature. If all you acquiesce to is to stand near his crate and smile, it will benefit us all. And I, for one, would greatly wish to see that.”

  His smile deepened for a moment and then he released her and moved away, forcing Isra to turn and follow him with her eyes.

  “I’ll wait for you as long as I am able,” he promised over his shoulder, and Isra saw Gunar trot to catch up with van Groen and press the long-handled whip into his hand.

  Isra stood there as the sun began to sink even farther beyond the bare trees, draping the field and the circle of wagons in crisp shadows anticipatory of the coming night. She smelled woodsmoke on the air already, heard melodies being strung together as the musicians warmed to their craft. And now, emerging from the gloom in the direction of the road, came the first of the villagers—children running ahead of the adults into the barren field, being transformed into a fair by the burly men setting tall torches in the spaces between the wagons.

  Asa van Groen was not going to force her to display herself, regardless of what that icy blonde had said.

  You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to do.

  Roman Berg had advised her the same.

  Two men, telling Isra that she had the freedom to choose.

  The only problem was, she was so used to being forced either into action by threats of violence or into disobedience by performing the opposite of what was expected of her, she had no earthly idea what to do just then.

  She had given her word to van Groen that she would participate in the caravan’s entertainment; she hadn’t known it would be this soon.

  If she did perform, she could earn coin she and Roman Berg might sore be in need of in the coming weeks.

  It was all up to her.

  Isra looked down at the costume in her hands, the headpiece heavy-looking, possibly resembling a gold crown if viewed from afar and if the audience perhaps squinted a bit. The white cloth material was not silk, but a very fine flax all the same.

  How many times had she wished she was someone with power, with wealth enough to command a change in her situation? In her hands, she held the persona of a queen. Or an approximation of one. She could be someone else for a night. All she had to do was change her clothes.

  Isra turned and looked at the paneled shelter of Asa van Groen’s wagon. The door was closed, but the hasp swung away from the frame, indicating the leader had left his accommodations unlocked.

  Her choice.

  Isra blew out a stiff breath from between her lips and strode to the wagon.

  * * *

  By the time Roman unhitched the donkey, secured the wagon, and made his way from the interior of the circle to the outer, torchlit ring with Lou on his shoulder, dusk had leaked away into a clear black night. Th
e air was perfumed with sizzling fat and burning pitch, the smell of unwashed men and the faded scent of lavender water mixed with greasy paint.

  All around the perimeter of the carts—whose brightly painted canvases and wooden sides had been set alight by the torches—members of the caravan performed their tricks to groups of villagers of varying sizes. There was the juggler, tossing knives and apples over his head, the portions of fruit growing exponentially as he deftly used the blades in rotation to halve the red fruits as they spun in the air.

  The woman and her dogs, smallish beasts who yapped and leaped through willow rings whilst wearing tiny vests, sat on their haunches and howled along in time to Helena’s direction with her long, painted wand.

  Dracus had set up his target some distance away from the caravan, and the archer amazed the crowd with his accuracy as he shot his bow from varying angles.

  The fattest man Roman had ever seen in his life sat on a reinforced chair, his arse spilling over the edges of the seat while he strummed a tiny lute. He appeared to be wearing a lady’s gown, and his voice was unnaturally high-pitched through his flowing beard. But it was when Roman came around the front of the cart to watch openly that he saw the scandalously deep cleavage and kohled eyes of the performer.

  She caught him staring at her, and her fat, bejeweled fingers left the strings to waggle in Roman’s direction.

  “Hello, dear,” she sang out. There were tiny colored ribbons tied into her impressive beard, and at her side looked to be bins of crafted jewelry for sale.

  Roman shook himself out of his stupor long enough to nod politely and move away, continuing his search for Isra.

  Someone appeared near his elbow, and Roman looked down to find the blonde artist, Fran, walking alongside him.

  “Shall I call you Hans, then?” she said by way of greeting, her eyes lingering on Lou.

  “Me or the falcon?” he asked.

  She smiled up at him before turning her gaze back to the activity around them as they walked along the fringe of spectators gathered before the wagons.

  “It seems as though we might hail from the same part of the world, at least originally. You refuse to tell anyone your name, so I thought of one that is common to our heritage. Hans. Have I guessed correctly?”

  Roman couldn’t help his smile. “I’m afraid not. You are Norse?” he asked.

  Fran nodded her head. “And you?”

  “How did you come to be entangled with Asa van Groen’s band?” he asked, sidestepping her question.

  She chuckled, as if indulging his reticence. “I had need to leave my home suddenly, with only the clothes I wore in my possession. Asa’s band was camped between the village and my home. I snuck onto the back of one of the wagons. Hid when they stopped.” Roman reached out to stay her as a pair of young boys ran whooping in front of them. He released her right away, although she didn’t seem to notice as she turned to watch the boys pass for longer than Roman thought was necessary. Lou flapped his wings in a disgruntled fashion at being jostled.

  “One of those was Nickle,” she said at last, turning back to walk with Roman again but glancing over her shoulder where the boys had run. “Ten years old in the spring. Resourceful lad. It was he who stole your belongings.”

  Roman paused to look behind him, although the thief was nowhere to be seen.

  “He didn’t take your cart at first only because he said he doubted he could have made it back to camp without waking you,” Fran said with something of a sad smile. “Any matter, Asa didn’t discover I was tagging along with the troupe for several days. Almost a week. It’s a good thing he did, else I likely would have starved.”

  Roman watched her from the corner of his eye. “Someone was chasing you.”

  She nodded and looked up. “You can sympathize?”

  Roman only shrugged.

  “Yes, someone was chasing me. I killed my husband on our wedding night, apparently, although I hadn’t set out to. I was only ten and six and my husband a very old man. I’m quite certain his heart merely gave out. His just reward, if you ask me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Roman asked.

  Fran drew a deep, easy breath in through her nose, her eyes still taking in the crowd milling around the perimeter of the circle. “All here know my story, where I’m from. I’m not so enamored of this life as I once was, but perhaps I can somehow be of help to you in finding your way here.” She looked up at him, her face still solemn, sad. She looked as though she wanted to say something further but only shrugged and turned her gaze to the gathering.

  Roman nodded, his hands behind his back as he strolled. “Thank you.”

  “The woman you are with,” Fran hedged. “She is wanted, too? Is it because of you that she is, or the other way ’round?”

  “Have you seen . . . her?” Roman asked, catching himself just before he let Isra’s name slip.

  Fran rolled her pale lips inward with a little smile, as if surrendering to the idea that Roman was not going to talk about the dark beauty traveling with him.

  “No,” she said. “Not since she came from Asa’s wagon.” Fran looked up at him, daring him to think what she was alluding to. “I thought that was where you were going just now—that you knew.”

  “I knew she was going to find van Groen,” Roman said, trying to mask his unease. “But I’ve been settling our wagon and don’t yet know where van Groen is camped.”

  Fran raised her pale eyebrows and scanned the ground as her slippers at the end of her long legs kicked out before her. “Ah. Our wagon. But she is not your woman.” She looked up at him.

  “We are traveling companions,” Roman said feeling the back of his neck heat. “What of you?” he asked, turning the tables on Fran’s inquisition of his personal life. “Have you no mate in this band of merry performers?”

  “No,” she said. “Not for a while anyway.” She gestured with her head, and Roman looked to where she’d indicated, not realizing he’d been studying her fine profile. “We’ve arrived just in time.”

  Roman stopped a fair distance behind the sizable crowd gathered in front of a draped rectangle of curtain. More torches had been placed around this area of the camp, and the many flames lit up the ocher-colored fabric better than any gilded candelabra at a noble feast. Although he and Fran were at least ten paces behind the crowd, Roman’s height gave him the advantage of seeing everything as clearly as if he was in the front row.

  Suddenly, a slinky, rippling shadow flowed from the seam of the curtains, revealing a coif of dark hair that was somehow swept even higher than Roman remembered. Asa van Groen held his long arms out from his sides, the pale skin of his hands seeming to glow. All his wide white teeth showed in his broad smile, and even from such a distance, Roman fancied he could see the sparkle in the man’s eyes.

  “Gentle folk!” he called out in a rich, robust voice. “Yours have been favored to be the very first western eyes to behold the miraculous and dan-gerous spectacle that waits behind this curtain. If... you dare look upon it.” Van Groen’s mesmerizing voice inflected the words in such a way that even Roman found himself leaning forward, as if he’d no idea what was behind the curtain.

  He felt Fran’s shoulder press into his arm. “He’s very good, isn’t he?”

  Roman nodded.

  “For it is not a sight for the faint of heart—or for those easily swept up in the tide of romantic longing!” Van Groen paced the width of the curtain now, his gaze flowing over the audience, his white hands waving hypnotically in time with his words. “Thousands of miles! From the strangest land ever inhabited by man! Where the people are ruled by golden statues and beastly sorcerers, and where the sand stretches away farther than the horizon at sea and a simple traveler might wander and wander . . .” Here, van Groen held his arm before him and stared past his fingertips before whispering, “Forever.”

  He whipped around to the crowd again. “But tonight!” he cried, causing a good portion of the audience to startle and then la
ugh nervously at themselves. “Through a highly secret agreement with none other than the king of that very land himself, I bring to you two of Egypt’s most prized and coveted jewels. Kahn the Terrible and his mistress, the queen of the River Nile!” Van Groen held up his arms again and stepped to the side as the curtains split in the center and spread open.

  The crowd gasped and clapped.

  And there was Isra, standing before the wagon with van Groen’s whip in one hand, looking rather startled herself at her abrupt revelation. Her dark eyes were wide beneath the awkward crown upon her head, but Roman had to admit that, from a distance, the complete costume was quite impressive. The white cloth he’d only seen folded in her hands was a long, flowing sheath. It shimmered in the torchlight against her raven hair and dusky skin, and when she raised her hands to indicate the cage behind her, Roman saw a cape attached at her shoulders, knotted tassels along the undersides of her arms.

  The painted wooden sides of Kahn’s conveyance had been dropped down to reveal ceiling-to-floor bars, and in the far left corner of the crate the tiger lay, his glittering eyes taking in the crowd apathetically. He licked each of his cheek pads in turn and then looked away.

  The applause died away after several moments, and soon the only sounds in the chilly night air were the shuffling of feet, the hissing of the flames, the sounds of the night insects. On Roman’s shoulder, Lou gave a pair of short cheeps.

  “Does it do a trick?” someone from the crowd shouted.

  “’E’s only lying there.”

  “I want to touch it.”

  “I want my penny back.”

  The grumblings grew louder and more discontented with each passing moment, and Roman felt a knot of unease in his stomach as he saw the panic creeping across Isra’s face.

  “Uh-oh,” Fran murmured at his side. “She’s losing them.”

  “How can she lose them?” Roman demanded. “She hasn’t done anything.”

  “Exactly,” Fran said, and her eyebrows flinched up a bit. “Don’t worry. Asa won’t let it carry on much longer. He’ll save her, mark my words.”