by Clare Smith
The others stood around him, Rabayan, Tingallent and Todden with their swords drawn, and for a moment he couldn’t remember what had happened, except he’d tried to resist the pull of the Moonstone Blade. He remembered finding his brother on board a ship and had called his name, but then everything had changed. There had been a terrible pain as if he’d been torn in two, and after that he’d been flying.
What in the name of the gods are you?” hissed Tingallent, still waving his sword at him.
“I’m your friend, Poddorrin.” Or at least he thought he was, although he was becoming less certain every time he touched that wretched blade and was drawn into the life of someone else.
“You’re not the Poddorrin we know. He died in his sleep right in front of us two hours ago, and what returned and looked out of your eyes was a nightmare. Whatever sort of creature you are, you are possessed and there is only one thing to do with you.”
Tingallent went to take a step forward but Todden pulled him back and held onto his sword arm. “Now hold on, Ting. At least give the boy a chance to explain.”
Explain? Why should he explain to these creatures whose only reason for living was to serve him? A terrible anger rose within him but he pushed it down knowing that it was no more his anger than were his confused thoughts. Something had happened to him, and he thought he knew what it was, but it was going to be very difficult to explain.
“I told you about the dragon spirit which lives within me. It was that which went in search of its brothers and left my body behind, and it’s that you saw when it returned.”
Rabayan gave a bark of cynical laughter and Tingallent looked doubtful and shook his head, trying to swallow back his disbelief. “And did this spirit of yours find what it was looking for?”
“It found the warrior and called to him, but the man didn’t answer.”
That was just more than Tingallent could take. “I thought as much,” he said with a derisive laugh. “We’re wasting our bloody time here playing his stupid games. Instead of sitting around listening to this gibberish we should be making plans and doing productive things to save the Enclave. I, for one, don’t intend to stay here any longer doing nothing.”
He went to walk away but Todden still held him by the arm. “We said we would give Poddorrin a chance to show that his theory about bringing the dragons back to life had some merit, and it seems to me that he’s just starting to prove it. I think we should stay and let him try again and see what he can come up with.”
Rabayan shook his head in disagreement but Collia looked enthusiastic. Tingallent gave a sigh of frustration, he supposed Todden was right. “All right, we’ll stay for one last day, but after that we’re out of here and doing things my way.”
He stormed off and the others slowly followed him leaving Todden behind. “Tingallent’s not a patient man, and if he says just one more day then that’s all you have. If that dragon spirit wants to live again, then I think you need to return to your cave and find some answers.”
Todden was right of course, if there were going to be answers they would be in the Dragon Watcher’s cave, but he’d no idea where to start looking. In any case, he was too exhausted to look for them now or even to make it back there. Instead he curled up where he was and hoped that tomorrow would be a better day. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he wondered how the dragon spirit within him had escaped his hold so easily, and if it left again, would it ever return
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CHAPTER SEVEN
A Slave’s Lot
Rome
Banniff followed behind his new master’s horse, jogging to keep up and concentrating on where he was putting his feet in case he should trip and fall. If he did and his master didn’t notice, then the noose around his neck was likely to tighten and strangle him a long time before the rough stones of the roadway would do him enough damage to finish him off. He didn’t mind running long distances though. As a warrior in his father’s war band he was used to running mile after mile through the northern forests, and fighting a battle at the end of it.
Neither was his master riding that fast, or at least not so fast that he couldn’t keep up. No, his main problem was his lack of attire. Since coming to Rome the only clothing he’d worn was a loincloth, and that had been taken from him by the slave trader who had offered to cut him to secure a quick sale. Fortunately his master had other plans for him and had saved him from that unpleasantness.
However, his lack of clothing left him vulnerable to sharp stones on the roadway, the blistering sun overhead and every mocking youth who thought it would be fun to see if they could throw a stone and knock his balls off. He was already bruised on both thighs where he’d twisted around to protect himself and his buttocks were cut in several places where the youths had been a long way off target. In fact, if he went on like this, he wasn’t going to be of any use for the purpose his master had in mind for him and he wondered where that would leave him.
His small, fat master in his brightly coloured, baggy clothes had said that he had no need for a slave to do anything else but keep his wife happy, and he supposed that a slave with no purpose was a dead slave. Despite that possibility he was still surprised that his master should be so careless with his property. After all, if he was to be a gift for his wife, then surely he would want him to arrive in a reasonable condition.
It occurred to him then that perhaps the rather odd, little man had forgotten all about him, particularly as he hadn’t looked behind since they had passed through the gates of Rome. If that was the case, then things were unlikely to improve until they arrived at wherever they were going. By that time he could be so damaged that the man’s wife might reject him and that would be the end of him.
The solution was to remind the man that he was there which could be equally as disastrous as being forgotten. He didn’t have much experience of being a slave, but he knew that the slaves his father had owned tried hard to be as inconspicuous as possible. Those who failed and came to his father’s attention often ended up in his bed or being beaten or even both.
Still, he had to do something about the situation, so he broke out of his jog into a sprint and came up level with his master’s leg. The man looked down at him with a slight frown and then broke into a broad grin.
“Yes, my little flower is going to love you.” He gave another grin and kicked his horse into a trot.
If it hadn’t been for the noose around his neck he would have stopped and looked at the man in amazement, but a sharp tug on the rope and a tightening of the knot had him running. He’d been right about it not being wise to come to his master’s attention, because he was now no longer jogging but moving at the sort of pace which he could only keep up for a short while. Already he could feel his calf muscles start to burn and his breathing becoming louder and harsher. He put his head down, concentrated on the roadway beneath his feet and hoped that his stamina would last out until they reached their destination.
When his master’s horse slowed again he was almost at the end of his strength. His breath was coming in harsh gasps so that his ribs pushed against the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen and his body glistened with sweat. He slowed to a ragged jog and looked up as the gates of a white villa were pulled open, allowing them to enter a spacious courtyard where his master’s household were lined up to greet him.
He’d seen villas like this on his journey through the Roman countryside, but those had been dotted across distant hillsides and looked to be nothing more than farmhouses with low walls. In his own land they would have been easy pickings for brigands or rival clans. This villa was nothing like those. It had high walls with metal spikes on top and guards posted every ten paces. The gates were made of heavy wood bound in metal bands, and two ballista, which were similar to those which had been used to slaughter the war host, were placed on either side.
The villa, which stood in the centre of the enclosed compound, was pristine white and capped by bright red tiles, but even this beautiful buil
ding showed that it had been built ready to repel attackers. Heavy shutters hung at every window and the door was as heavily built as the one which hung on the outside wall. There were even narrow slits in the upper part of the villa’s walls which were just wide enough for arrows to be shot down onto the open killing ground in front of the fortress-like house.
For a moment he wondered why a simple merchant would need such a heavily guarded and fortified dwelling. They were not that far from Rome that thieves or bands of runaway slaves would dare to raid the place. It was only a passing thought though as his master pulled his horse to a halt and almost bounced from its back. Banniff watched in amazement as the merchant bounded up the sweeping steps to the villa and then threw his arms around the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
She was at least a foot taller than her husband with the long, lithe body of a goddess. Her sleek, jet black hair hung straight to her shoulders, framing an exquisite face with eyes so heavily made up that she looked like an exotic statue. She wore a tightly fitting robe which fell to the floor but did nothing to hide the shape of her body beneath it. Jewelled bands, set off against her olive skin, circled her arms which ended in long, fine fingers with painted nails.
Banniff couldn’t take his eyes off her, and watched almost mesmerised as the merchant said something, pointed at him and then took her hand and led her to where he stood. As she walked towards him he could see her body sway and the outline of her breasts beneath her flimsy robe. He knew it was a bad idea, and he did his best to control himself, but just couldn’t help it when his manhood responded to her presence.
She gave a laugh, a cold, humourless sound and walked behind him. There she placed a sharp-nailed finger at the base of his neck and ran it down the centre of his back without caring about the half healed blisters or the scabbed over lash marks it cut through. He shuddered like a horse in stud, and by the time she’d returned to stand in front of him, he was fully erect. She looked him in the eye, ran her fingernail up the inside of his erection and he lost all control.
His humiliation was almost more than he could stand, but it didn’t seem to bother the merchant or his wife. The only other people he could see from the corner of his eye were two guards, and they didn’t react either, so he wondered if this was a regular occurrence and what would happen next.
“There, my sweet,” said the merchant almost bouncing up and down. “Didn’t I say I would bring you something back for you to play with? This one is a savage and the son of a barbarian chief. I have tested his stamina and you can see how virile he is, so, will he do? Does he amuse you, my flower of the desert?”
“He will do until he tires, Tutacaraph. Now come and show me what those trinkets from my homeland have fetched in the markets of Rome, and then we can plan our next venture into the sleeping place of kings.”
“Of course, my precious jewel, you know I would do anything to make you happy.”
He kissed her fingertips and then bounded up the steps whilst she beckoned one of the servants over. “Bastoph, get him cleaned up, fed and caged until I am ready to try him.” She went to walk away but turned back again. “Oh, and Bastoph, keep him covered up, he’s my property and I don’t want others to know what I have until I am ready to reveal him.”
The man, who he thought was some sort of overseer, hurried him away down the side of the villa and around the back, which was very different to the front’s impressive façade. Here there were no white marble walls or sweeping array of steps, but a dusty yard which baked under the relentless sun. Along the rear wall were the barracks where Tutacaraph’s guards slept, his horses were stabled and his hounds were kept, and in one corner there was a low building made of rough brick with a barred door where the slaves lived.
Bastoph, who either didn’t speak or didn’t care to, pointed at a bucket and a hole in the ground which was a well, and left him to draw water. By the time he had the bucket full, Bastoph had returned with several bundles of cloth. The overseer took hold of the rope which still hung around his neck and grumbling under his breath, led him to a cage next to the one where Tutacaraph’s hounds growled and snarled at him.
The man glared at him as if he was the enemy and opened the door to the cage. He guessed that he was supposed to go inside so he stepped forwards still carrying the bucket of water, and Bastoph threw the bundles in after him and slammed the door shut.
“Beware, barbarian,” said Bastoph suddenly in broken Roman, “the door is not locked so you might think to escape, but the guards patrol by day and the hounds prowl at night, and the mistress gets great pleasure from the pain of others, as you will learn.”
Bastoph walked away before he could ask him any questions about the mistress or what it was that she would do with him, and all he could do was stand there and wonder what would happen next. He felt uneasy about the man’s comments that the mistress enjoyed the pain of others, and wanted to know exactly what Bastoph had meant, but he clearly wasn’t going to get an explanation. Instead he gave a sigh of frustration and looked around to study his surroundings which didn’t take very long at all.
The cage was spacious and the dirt floor beneath his feet was hard packed and smooth. At the far end there was a sheltered area, and beneath it was a raised platform with a straw pallet on top. It wasn’t a palace, but compared to the other places he’d been held in since he’d been captured it was close to it. What’s more he had a whole bucket of water to himself.
He took the rope from around his neck and sipped at the water which was cold and clear with a slight mineral taste. Being careful not to drink too much at once, he sorted through the bundles of cloth until he found something which would do as a loincloth, and then used the rest of the bundle to wash and dry his body. With the exception of his long, matted hair and shaggy beard, it was the cleanest he’d been since the day he had swum in the Rhenus, before Therumadax had called the war host together.
He wrapped the loincloth around himself and then, feeling suddenly homesick, he went and sat on the edge of the platform with his head in his hands. Since being captured he’d lost track of time, but thought that the moon must have reached fullness twice since he’d last stood outside his father’s hall with his brothers by his side. It seemed so long ago, but he could still remember what it had been like to be a proud, young warrior in the house of his father and to be free. For a while he lost himself in the memories of better times until the sound of the cage door opening made him look up.
A young woman in a knee length tunic and carrying a tray entered whilst two guards stood outside scowling at him. He hoped that she was bringing him some food but when she stopped in front of him he could see that the only thing on the tray was a knife, a bowl of water which steamed slightly and a flask with a stone stopper.
“The mistress not like men with hair on face,” said the girl in broken Roman. “You shave, I cut hair and oil body.”
The shave and hair cut sounded good, but he wasn’t so sure about the oiling bit, but as he had no option he just nodded, carefully took the knife so as not to alarm the guards and began. By the time he’d finished he looked and felt very different, almost like his old self, except for the nagging hunger and the oil which glistened on his body. He was used to covering himself in goat’s fat to keep out the cold in the winter, but the oil was nothing like that; it was soft and smelled of spice. If his brothers were alive to see him they would laugh at such affection, but here, under the strong sun it felt quite natural.
Soon after the girl and the guards left Bastoph returned, looked him over as if he were a horse for sale and then beckoned him forward. He left the cage and followed the overseer across the courtyard and into the rear entrance of the villa. In all of his life he’d never been into such a place. His father’s hall had been large but open, and the small villas, owned by old Roman soldiers that he and his brothers had raided, had been nothing as grand as this.
The walls of the narrow corridor were of plain stone, but all that changed when he was
led upstairs and through a doorway into a large, richly decorated room. Here the walls were lined with marble inlaid with gold etchings of naked women, who must have been goddesses, and men, who from the size of their extended member, must have been gods. Drapes in the finest, transparent silk separated the room in two and through this stepped Tutacaraph’s wife wearing something even more transparent than the drapes.
“Remove your covering,” she commanded in a cold voice. Raising one eyebrow slightly in surprise he did as he was ordered, showing that he was already responding to her presence.
“You will perform for me without making a sound or touching my body with any part of you which is not required for penetration. When I stay stop you will stop instantly, and remain as you are until I tell you to leave. If you perform well you will have food and wine, but if you perform poorly you will be punished.”
With that she turned away and walked through the drapes. For a moment he hesitated, trying to work out what she’d said and not exactly sure what was expected of him, but then came to the conclusion that she wanted him to follow her. His slight hesitation had been long enough for her to prepare herself so that when he stepped through the drapes she lay naked on the bed with her legs apart.
Like any young warrior in the clans he’d had women before. At first it was just his father’s slaves, and when he was old enough it was the girls who were captured in clan raids and were passed around the war band, but he’d never taken a woman like this before and didn’t know where to begin. It wasn’t a case of not being ready or willing, but before the women had been reluctant and their resistance had been exciting, or he’d watched his brothers take them and he couldn’t wait for his turn. This was very different and the look of boredom on the woman’s face didn’t help.
Still, if this is how his mistress wanted it who was he to complain? He climbed on top of her being careful to touch her as little as possible, lowered himself into position and pushed himself into her. He’d expected some sort of reaction, a groan of pleasure or the arching of her back, but she stayed as unresponsive as a dead fish. It didn’t matter to him though, he hadn’t been with a woman for months and his need was almost as desperate as his hunger.
