Brettix shuffled along in his foot manacles, keeping his head down and hoping his face would be unrecognizable behind its full growth of beard. The slave marketers who had captured him were a splinter group of the Catuvellauni who traded with the Romans and were regarded by their own people as little more than brigands. They kept the columns moving, prodding their human goods with staves, and if they encountered resistance, whips. The men and women for sale were herded into a huge shed in which a feeble fire, insufficient to combat the bone chilling cold, was burning. But as the building filled up body heat began to warm the air, and by the time the first prospect was dragged unwillingly onto the elevated platform Brettix was sweating.
The caller began to extol the virtues of the hulking Gaul who was up for sale. Brettix, who was far back in the pack, had time to recall the series of events that had brought him to the slave market at Noviomagos, the “new land” on the coast of the Oceanus Britannicus many leagues southwest of the Iceni territory.
He had been left for dead after the skirmish at Drunemeton. When he awoke on the field littered with bodies, pinned under a pile of corpses the dying warmth of which had saved his life, he realized that his comrades would have reported him as lost. The head wound which had left him unconscious made him dizzy and disoriented for several days, during which time he was picked up and nursed by the slavetraders who put him on the block once his health was restored. Healthy young Celtic males with broad backs brought a good price from Roman masters who were always looking for slaves, and nobody asked any questions.
Brettix hoped to keep it that way. So far no one seemed to know who he was, and if bought he would escape at the first opportunity and try once more to get back home.
The sale proceeded swiftly, with every color and form of human being passing before the eyes of slavemasters eager to please their Roman employers with a particularly judicious buy. There were ruddy Caledonians from the far north, tattooed Ordovices from the west, Brigantes with whitewashed hair. And from beyond the seas those captured by pirates: dark skinned Egyptians and Nubians and Numidians from Africa, all varieties of continental Gauls from both sides of the Alps, golden Greeks and dark and slender Macedonians, sloe eyed Thracians with pierced ears and waxed hair. Brettix watched the parade go by, waiting his turn, eager to see where he would wind up so he could plot his route home.
Finally he was next. As he walked up the stairs to the platform he heard a gasp from the front row where the most affluent slavemasters stood to get the best view.
He looked back over his shoulder and locked eyes with Ariovistus, slavemaster to General Ammianus Scipio.
Brettix felt a surge of hope which he tried to keep from showing on his face. Ariovistus was a Trinovante, a nervous old man who worked for the Romans, as many of his tribe did. But in this climate he was a fellow Celt, and the closest thing to a friend Brettix was likely to find. As the caller described Brettix in Latin as a genuine find, surely the handsomest and strongest man in Britain, worth a first bid of at least fifty sesterces, Ariovistus raised his hand.
Brettix proved to be very expensive. The bids kept getting higher. Ariovistus was fighting off competition in the form of the slavemaster for a wealthy Roman matron from Londinium who was looking for company, as well as a trader who planned to sell Brettix again to a Parthian partial to blond boys. Finally Ariovistus halted the bidding and told the caller in Latin that he wished a closer examination of the goods before he made his final decision.
The caller stepped aside and allowed Ariovistus to approach the man on the platform. He took hold of Brettix’ chin and pretended to examine his teeth.
“Brettix, is that you?” the slavemaster whispered fiercely, his eyes wide.
“Of course it is, will you just buy me and get this over with?” Brettix muttered, wild that he might miss this chance to get a free ride back to Iceni territory.
“I’m not authorized to pay as much as this bandit is asking,” Ariovistus hissed, pretending to feel the younger man’s bicep.
“Pay anything, my father will give it back to you tenfold,” Brettix snarled under his breath.
“That’s enough,” the caller said, stepping forward again as he began to suspect that something was up between the goods and the prospective purchaser.
Ariovistus, looking worried, resumed his place in the front row and proceeded to outbid everyone for the man on display. He was awarded the prize, then handed over the money and stood by as Brettix was unshackled and led from the hut.
“I am going to die when Scipio finds out how much I paid for you,” he moaned when they were left alone. He was just beginning to realize the enormity of what he had done.
“Will you stop whining?” Brettix retorted. “I told you my father will get the money for you.” He pulled his cloak about him as he felt the bite of the cold air once more.
“You don’t understand. I was supposed to be buying a horse trainer for Scipio’s daughter. The general sent me all the way here from Camulodonum to get the best man to give her riding lessons.”
The two men stared at one another as the same thought dawned in their minds simultaneously.
“I can give riding lessons,” Brettix said calmly. “I’m the best horseman in the tribe, ask anyone.”
Ariovistus stared at him.
“I can do it,” Brettix insisted.
“We’ll never get away with it, he’ll know who you are!” Ariovistus gasped, alarmed by the audacity of the plan.
“How will he know? He’s never seen me, and none of my people will tell him. His stables are outside the garrison, aren’t they? I would be staying there, so it’s perfect. I just cost him a fortune and he’ll be supporting me in style to gain strength and fight him another day.” Brettix chortled, rubbing his hands together. “Just pass the word around among my people to keep my presence quiet.”
“Pass the word around! How am I supposed to do that,” Ariovistus demanded, “when everyone thinks that you’re dead!”
“I’m not, as you can see. I was left for dead, then picked up by the slave dealers who scavenge the battlefields and wound up where you found me today.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you, I had to make sure it was really you under all that hair. You never even wore a moustache and now you look like Albiorix,” Ariovistus said, referring to the Celtic god depicted with a full beard and flowing locks. “Your sister used to say that you wanted to show your face because you were vain.” Ariovistus stopped short. “Oh, Brettix, your sister,” he said in a grave tone.
“What? Has something happened to Bronwen?” Brettix asked him anxiously, grabbing his arm.
Ariovistus sighed. “I have a lot to tell you. Quite a bit has happened since you’ve been away. Your father made peace with the Romans once he thought you were dead and Bronwen was part of the deal.”
Brettix opened his mouth, then closed it, unable to frame an appropriate question.
“Come along and I’ll tell you all about it,” the slavemaster said. “It’s a good thing I can pass you off as a horse trainer, I don’t have enough money left to buy us a meal. But Scipio’s carriage is waiting for us and it’s well stocked. We can begin the return journey in the morning.” He stopped short and turned to Brettix suddenly as a new concern occurred to him. “Can you speak Latin?”
Brettix shrugged. “Some.”
Ariovistus threw up his hands. “What am I supposed to tell the general, that you are a MUTE horse trainer? Or that I forgot I was ordered to find someone who could speak Latin? I should just let you go your way and tell Scipio that I was robbed and couldn’t purchase anyone for him.”
Brettix waited.
“But then how will you get back to Camulodunum?” Ariovistus went on, wringing his hands. “You have no money and now, neither do I. You can’t buy a horse and you can’t make the journey on foot in the winter. Nobody can, though quite a few have died trying.”
“I’ll have to try,” Brettix said simply.
Ariovi
stus closed his eyes, shaking his head.
“I have a Roman driver,” he said quietly. “He reports on everything to the general. Unless you’re the new horse trainer I have no excuse take you back with me.”
He opened his eyes again, his expression suddenly crafty.
Brettix stared back at him, hands on hips.
“Do you have enough Latin to have one conversation with Scipio when I bring you to meet him?” Ariovistus demanded of Brettix.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It depends upon what he says.”
Ariovistus raised his brows. “If we keep it brief we may get away with it.”
“How will you make sure the conversation is short?”
“I’ll distract him with some household concern, which should make him dismiss both of us at once. He hates to be bothered with domestic matters, he considers those the province of his wife.”
Brettix nodded encouragingly.
“He’s not likely to pay any more attention to you, so if you can get through that first interview you should be fine.”
“How will I converse with the girl?”
“She speaks quite good Celtic.”
“She does?” Brettix asked in surprise.
“Yes, she talked all the time to that old crone who worked in the Scipio kitchens, the one your sister cares for from time to time.”
“Maeve?”
“That one. Bronwen took the old woman with her to the Roman’s house when she got married.”
“My sister is married?” Brettix inquired in a strong voice. “To a Roman?”
Ariovistus waved him off. “All in good time, my boy. First I need to know, can you teach jumping?”
“Of course.”
“I mean skillful jumping, such as the Germanii practice, not military jumping from horses or chariots.”
Brettix nodded.
“Obstacle jumping,” Ariovistus emphasized, describing a height with his hand as he searched the younger man’s face. “This is what the girl wishes to learn.”
“I can teach anything to do with a horse,” Brettix said impatiently, “but I doubt she’ll be doing much riding or jumping of any kind in ice and snow.”
Ariovistus smiled thinly. “Her father had his men build her an indoor paddock behind the stables. It has a thatched roof and concrete walls and is warmed by an underground hypocaust like the baths in Rome. They had to melt the frozen earth with coal from kiln fires before their spades could dig into it.”
Brettix grinned, his strong teeth showing white against his new beard. “A little spoiled, is she?”
Ariovistus waved his hand dismissively again. “She’s bored. Her mother is...strange, and Scipio wants to keep the girl from hanging around the servants and listening to their stories. It seems that she is quite suggestible.”
“Suggestible? What exactly does that mean? That she is as strange as her mother?”
“I don’t know, I’m just telling you the gossip that I’ve heard around the house. People says she mixes too much with the locals and her father doesn’t like it.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t,” Brettix murmured thoughtfully. “How old is she? Eleven or twelve?”
“Almost eighteen,” Ariovistus said. “She was seventeen early last spring.”
Brettix looked surprised. “I thought they were all married off by that age.”
“She is betrothed to some wealthy aristocrat back in Rome. Look, Brettix, that is neither here nor there. The only important thing is that you learn to please her, or it will be your skin. And mine.”
“I’ll please her,” Brettix said quietly, his pale eyes going flat and hard. “Now tell me everything you know about my sister.”
CHAPTER four
Bronwen waited for the slave to turn the corner before slipping into Claudius’ study. She listened at the doorway to make sure the girl was not returning before hurrying over to his desk. The letter on it had not yet been read; the wax seal on the back of the Egyptian reed paper was intact. The fact that it was high quality papyrus meant that it had come from Rome, but she did not dare open it. Claudius would notice a broken seal. The only light filtering into the room came from a torch in a wall niche down the hall, and she couldn’t see anything else worth exploring.
She left the study and went back into her bedroom, sitting glumly before the fire.
She had been married for over a month, living in the same house with the Roman she was supposed to be exploiting, and she had learned nothing of value. As a spy she was a total failure. Claudius was careful. Any correspondence he brought home with him he returned to the barracks as quickly as possible. He left very little sitting around to be examined, and if he worked late he packed up everything and sealed it into pouches before retiring.
For all the good she was doing the Iceni she might as well be back in her village, spinning wool.
Claudius’ treatment of her did nothing to improve her spirits. He was as good as his word. He left early and returned late, he was detached and courteous, he made small talk during the evening meal like a sophisticate at a dinner party. He went his own way and kept his own counsel, never entering their bedroom at night until after she was tucked up like a child with the quilt under her chin.
He was, in short, the perfect gentleman.
So why was she so unhappy?
It wasn’t just that she was getting nowhere with her information gathering scheme. She remembered too many things: the way she had awakened the morning after their wedding to find Claudius gone, but his cloak draped over her protectively to ward off the chill; the way he watched her so intently when he thought she wasn’t aware of it; the way his dreams caused him to cry out in alarm and start up, then fall back onto his pallet before the fire, slipping once more into slumber without ever coming fully awake.
And the way he looked when he stripped off his tunic after he thought she was asleep, his muscled arms and back bronzed by the firelight, the scars crosshatching his torso doing nothing to detract from the spare beauty of his body.
Bronwen jumped at the tap on her door; when Maeve entered she was glad the old woman couldn’t tell what she had been thinking.
“The master is home,” Maeve said. “He’s waiting for you in the dining room.”
Bronwen rose, her hand going to her hair. She unbound the braid over her shoulder and took off the plain cotton gown she was wearing, exchanging it for a silken one with an embroidered yoke.
“So you want to look nice for him,” Maeve said slyly, as Bronwen combed her hair.
“I want to look nice for myself. It keeps my morale up and helps me get through each day.”
“Then why are you just changing now?”
“I feel like changing now!” Bronwen snapped. “Do you have to watch everything I do like a bird of prey? I’m sorry I brought you here to stay with me.”
“You brought me here because you were frightened,” Maeve said. “And you’re still frightened, but now for a different reason.”
“Be quiet,” Bronwen said, putting down her wooden comb.
“You feel something for him, don’t you? I knew it, the goddess told me the night you met...”
“I don’t want to hear another word about the goddess!” Bronwen said between clenched teeth, interrupting Maeve in mid-sentence. “I can send you right back to Scipio’s house, one request to my husband and you will be gone. Just keep that in mind.” She brushed past Maeve abruptly, heading out of the room.
“I liked Scipio’s house,” Maeve said. “The little Scipiana is kind, she treated me better than you do.”
“And Lady Scipio? How did she treat you? Like the dung in the stableyard, I would imagine,” Bronwen said darkly.
“Why are you upset?” Maeve called after her softly. “Is it so awful living with such a handsome man?”
Bronwen slammed the bedroom door in her face and stalked down the hall. As she entered the triclinium Claudius rose from his couch and faced her.
He looked tired; there were purple sh
adows under his eyes and the set of his shoulders was not quite as straight as usual.
He was not sleeping well on the floor.
“Good evening,” he said to her, pouring wine into a goblet and handing it to her. He reclined on his couch once more and picked up a bunch of imported figs from the low table in front of him. “Have some of these, they just arrived on a supply boat today. All the way from the desert land of the Herods.”
Bronwen reclined on the couch opposite him and sipped her wine, looking around the room. Like the rest of the house it was done in Roman style, which made her feel on stage, out of place. It contributed to the notion she sometimes had that she was acting in some melodrama and this was not actually her life.
“You should move one of these couches into the bedroom and sleep on it,” Bronwen said to Claudius. “It would have to be more restful than that pallet on the floor.”
He gave her the slight smile that warmed his eyes but hardly touched his mouth.
“Are you concerned about me?” he asked lightly.
Bronwen looked away from him. “I was just trying to make you more comfortable.”
He studied her. “There is nothing at all comfortable about our arrangement, Bronwen.”
Ever since she had told him her name, he had used it often, making it sound like a caress.
“What does it mean in your language?” he asked, as a servant brought in a tray of smoked wood pigeons.
Bronwen waited until the girl had left and then said, “What does what mean?”
“Your name.”
“A small white bird.”
“Like a lark?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Alauda,” he said, translating it into Latin. “Very pretty. Caesar’s select legion of naturalized Roman citizens was called the larks. They came from all over the world, many from conquered peoples, and they were the best fighting unit in his whole army.”
“That must have surprised him,” Bronwen said dryly.
Claudius looked at her. “No. He had the greatest respect for his enemies.”
“As long as he defeated them,” Bronwen countered.
The Lion and the Lark Page 7
