by M. K. Hume
But Marcus Britannicus was bored and he had always considered virginal young girls to be tedious and unexciting. Regardless of her beauty, Severa was too tall and far too robust for his taste. He had felt the strength in the muscles under her fine, golden skin and had been repulsed on the one occasion when he had taken her hand. He might have been flattered if she had been in awe of him, but the expression in her guileless blue eyes told him that she was trying to guess at his motives whenever he was in her presence. Marcus recoiled from such female curiosity and took pains to avoid her, except when he had little choice.
I will need to get her with child, so I’ll be obliged to bed her eventually, Marcus thought casually after one unsatisfactory meeting. Afterwards, I can do as I please. With any luck at all, the bitch will die in childbirth like her mother, and I’ll have the throne, my heirs and all that her dowry has brought to my marriage. I’ll say one thing for these dirty Britons. They understand gold and have made sure that she has a significant dowry.
Then Marcus felt Endellion’s gaze boring into the side of his head and he turned towards her with an obliging smile.
Damn the bitch, he thought acidly. Who does she think she is?
‘I pray that you’ll be happy with my Severa,’ Endellion began bluntly, as she invaded his personal space in such a way that hinted she had no such expectation. ‘I should tell you, my lord, that while I was sired by a famed and noble warrior, I am also the daughter of a seer. I always keep my promises and, because Severa is so very dear to me, I would be sorry if I found myself at odds with her newly wed husband. I have always admired our Roman friends and colleagues, because my father gave me a detailed understanding of your people.’
‘How could any man wish harm on a sweet girl like Severa?’ Marcus replied with a smooth, amiable expression that failed to reach his eyes.
‘These things can happen, my lord. I’m sometimes surprised to discover that there are some ignorant Romans who still believe us to be superstitious savages, despite the fact that most of us worship the gentle Jesus and have come to reject the old religions.’
Marcus realised that her smile was as false as his own, yet he found himself enjoying the game he was playing. His mind drifted off to thoughts of his mother and his patrician wife who were safely domiciled in Rome. He shuddered delicately as he compared the women of Rome with those of the provinces. If this tribal female thought that she could win this exchange of banal hyperbole, Marcus was determined to prove her mistaken. His smile remained sweet as he countered her riposte.
‘Come, Your Highness. I’ve seen a number of your native rulers parading themselves with their talismans and the crude images of long-gone deities. I would be the first to commend your husband for providing the niceties of life, such as your baths, but most of his peers are ignorant, illiterate and unclean. Indeed many of them have a bad smell that precedes them.’
Endellion flushed at his sneer of triumph. ‘We all smell to some extent, Marcus, even if the more civilised among us have learned to conceal it with perfumes and precious oils. My father would have counselled you to watch what the British kings do, rather than be influenced by what they reveal to you in open discussion. He would also have advised you to be cautious among the women of Britannia, females who have demonstrated an ability to be more than mere decoration in bygone days.’
Marcus cleared his throat and paled a little. ‘Are you threatening me, Lady Endellion, now that we can loosely be described as kin?’
Endellion widened her eyes as if his words had surprised her.
‘Me, Marcus Britannicus? I would never do that! There would be no gain in threatening you because, as you say, we are almost linked by marriage. I believe we will come to know and understand each other very well in the years ahead.’
Not if I order you to be garrotted to stop your wagging tongue, Marcus thought.
Endellion understood him as clearly as if he had spoken aloud.
‘I find myself a little weary after your kind hospitality,’ he said. ‘So I beg you to pardon my departure in advance. I plan to go to my bed early this evening, so I can be fresh for my bride and the blessing of the church on the morrow.’
You’re a nasty worm and I’ll wager you’re up to something vile, Endellion thought, without a flicker of her feelings crossing her face.
Having said nothing that was openly offensive, the two aristocrats parted. Despite their diplomatic banter, each was hoping that the other would choke on their supper.
Aeron never thought to warn the guard that they should observe Marcus’s movements, or to provide him with any form of security. Quite simply, it never occurred to the king that this Roman nobleman would choose to frolic with the pimps, whores and bullyboys of the mean streets outside the city limits.
Marcus Britannicus had learned through experience that noblewomen and respectable servants recoiled from some of his more exotic and disgusting pleasures. Unwilling to give Aeron any power over him, Marcus decided to relieve his persistent itch by cavorting with the denizens of the Bower of Beauty where, if a girl died or was badly scarred, an exchange of coins would always put the matter to rights. On those occasions when he was in a mood to suffer personal punishment, he became particularly careful. While sadism was considered to be a manly pursuit, the desire to be debased and defiled was generally considered by Marcus’s peers to be contemptible. He had no desire to be mocked by his troops over his personal pleasures.
So the Roman commander ordered his only fully trusted personal guardsman to make the necessary arrangements for a night of pleasure with a small group of tawdry women inside one of Corinium’s whorehouses, a place where he had no need to maintain a pretence if he had sufficient coin to pay for the women’s services.
Constantinus, in his commander’s opinion, was far too naïve and prim to understand Marcus’s preferences for exotic pleasures, so he informed his adjutant that he would be enjoying an evening alone.
Like any competent adjutant, Constantinus had heard tales of Marcus’s more repulsive sexual escapades at first hand, so he was unable to school his face entirely, or to maintain his usual bland expression. Why any man would enjoy being disciplined by a naked woman was beyond the centurion’s understanding.
‘I would hate to think that you are sneering at me, Constantinus, for I won’t tolerate insolence from my junior officers. You’d be well advised to understand that I’ll soon become the High King of the Britons once I return to Deva with my bride. I will then have the authority of the Britons as well as the power of Rome to enforce my will.’ Marcus smiled throughout this threat, his porcine face dripping with sweat as he savoured the discomfort of his adjutant. ‘I’d suggest that you should ensure I lead a contented life, else you’ll end up in some flea-bitten fort at the far reaches of the Roman provinces.’
‘I am yours to command, Highness,’ Constantinus replied, forcing himself to ignore his natural affront. A lifetime of self-control was serving him well.
‘Find my personal guards! They will accompany me during my absence from the palace. I won’t need your protection, and I wouldn’t appreciate any curiosity on your part.’
‘I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t warn you that there are enemies of Rome, Excellency, even in a peaceful place like Corinium. There are men in these lands who would pay much for a chance to be alone with you. I beg you not to leave the town limits unless you take six of your most trusted men with you and, in addition, send some of our legionnaires to reconnoitre any destination you intend to visit. I ask that you take basic precautions, sir, and accept my advice in the spirit in which it is offered.’
If Marcus had hoped to punish Constantinus by dismissing this advice, then he should have been happy. The adjutant could feel the palms of his callused hands begin to itch with a premonition of impending disaster as soon as the commander waved away his imprecations. Disguised by dark clothing,
Marcus rode away at dusk. He was flanked by two of his most trusted guardsmen who were noted more for their sycophancy than for their fighting skills, leaving Constantinus to cool his heels in the royal villa.
The hours limped slowly by.
The watch was changed, and even in the stews of the outer town, the lights were slowly extinguished as the sounds of carousing in the inns died away. And yet there was no indication that Marcus and his guardsmen were making a belated return to the royal villa. Constantinus was becoming more and more concerned for the safety of his commander for he knew that Marcus would never sleep in the dirty beds of the Bower of Beauty, regardless of the deviant pleasure that had been enjoyed among the lice and bugs. So where was he?
Constantinus’s nerves had stretched to breaking point by the time he lost all patience.
‘Paulus! Crispus!’ Constantinus bellowed, careless of who might be wakened if he decided to initiate a search. Fortunately the two officers were billeted in the villa, so they were immediately at hand. They appeared before him in an instant, an indication that they, too, had been awake.
‘Rouse ten men immediately and order them to don full battle kit. Our commander hasn’t returned and I’m concerned for his safety.’
The veterans shot concerned glances at Constantinus and hurried to carry out his bidding as quickly as possible. They knew that this adjutant had a nose for trouble and wielded a thoroughly wicked gladius, but Shit-head wouldn’t thank them if they were to disturb the entire garrison while carrying out an unnecessary search.
But, because Constantinus was approachable with the men, they respected his rank and obeyed his commands without hesitation.
In contrast Paulus and Crispus had learned quickly that Marcus Britannicus was never wrong, even when proved to be so.
‘I can still remember the Ides of March last year when the Picts attacked us after Shit-head led us into that river valley without sending scouts out to scour the countryside,’ Crispus remarked in a low voice. ‘Marcus had Rusticus beaten half to death when he failed to hold his place in the line. And he inflicted the punishment in front of Rusticus’s troop. The poor bastard opened his wrists, and I still hold Shit-head responsible for his death. Rusticus was a good kid. He might have been a little green, but he was a good legionnaire, for all that.’
‘I’d keep my mouth shut about Shit-head if I was you,’ Crispus murmured, his eyes scanning the shadows of the stables in case they had been overheard. ‘The walls have ears and we know that the bastard will pay for information about those he suspects might be disloyal to him. We’ll suffer for our sins if we flap our gums carelessly. Besides, the adjutant wouldn’t like it, and I do care what he thinks.’
The bunks of the sleeping legionnaires stretched along the full length of the long room above the stables. The facilities were cleaner and more comfortable than most billets provided for common soldiers, so the men who were wakened from their sleep seemed well rested and content with their lot. Normally, being roused in the middle of the night from a warm bed would elicit an angry and defiant response, but Corinium had seen to the full bellies and creature comforts of these Roman soldiers for several weeks, more than most of them had experienced during years of military service.
None of the legionnaires, or their officers, expected any real problems. Constantinus had no doubt that Marcus would be furious to be roused from between a whore’s breasts by his inferiors, but the adjutant was adamant that his commander should sleep within the safe walls of the city. He tried to ignore the suspicion that Marcus was in any real danger, except from some of the unpleasant sexual diseases that were ever-present among the lower denizens of Romano-British society. Wisely, he had always kept his mouth shut on the subject.
The small troop marched out of Corinium under the pale light of a gelid moon. Constantinus briefly imagined that he was leading a troop of cadavers who had recently died and had turned livid at the lips and the fingers, but were still stiffly animated under the cold, unnatural glow. As if they shared his fancy, his men moved silently, without the usual clang of weapons or noisy footfalls on the cobblestones. Even their steaming breath in the cold air seemed part of a poisonous miasma.
The guard had passed through the gates of the town on foot as there seemed to be little advantage in rousing stable boys and preparing horses for such a short journey, even to carry an inebriated commander back to his quarters in the royal villa. The road was wide, as befitted a major thoroughfare leading to Glevum, so the men marched easily and maintained their gait without difficulty. As the hour was long past midnight, the laneways leading off from the main artery were dark and silent, and all open fires had been cold for some time. Then, once the troop reached a crossroad, complete with an empty gibbet, Constantinus led the patrol down dark alleyways and entered a maze of ramshackle, double-storey buildings that leaned drunkenly towards each other. Rickety, external stairs that hadn’t been painted for many years led up into dark rooms under the eaves of steep decrepit roofs.
The two streets that had been given over to sexual licence were, superficially, the best tended in the outer village. But Constantinus knew that first impressions were deceiving, for some entrepreneurial pimp or madam had used whitewash to disguise the dirtier planks along the façades. Unfortunately, the stench of invisible latrines and accumulated filth in corners of the laneways was so rank that he almost gagged. Several mangy dogs lifted their wary heads out of the darkness, growled threateningly, and then melted away.
Surprisingly, the streets were utterly empty, and no comatose vagrants were sleeping drunkenly in the shadows. At this late hour, wastrels and carousers would usually be found in various stages of undress and inebriation along this troublesome stretch which boasted several wine shops and alehouses, although they had already closed. Alert to unseen danger, Constantinus peered into the darkness and saw that there was no movement in the malodorous spaces between the buildings and the filthy gutters.
Paulus caught the adjutant’s eye. ‘Something’s wrong here, master. There’s not a slut in sight, and there’s no pimps or drunks. I’m beginning to think that Shit-head might be in real trouble.’
‘Two men to the front, two on each side and two behind us,’ Constantinus ordered crisply. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise.
‘Keep your wits about you, boys,’ Paulus said quietly.
Although his nerves were screaming that some disaster awaited them, Constantinus thanked his lucky stars that veterans had been sent to Corinium as Marcus’s junior officers.
‘Thanks be to Mithras that Tribune Maximo didn’t trust Shit-head any further than he can throw him,’ Paulus added, although the adjutant shot the decurion a warning glance before moving towards the guards at the head of the troop, who had slowed and were moving as silently as possible.
And then their destination came into view.
A battered, primitive sign depicting a naked woman loomed out of the darkness, lit by the two torches born by the leading guardsmen.
The name, Bower of Beauty, was obviously a joke on the part of the owners, considering that a skeletal moon obscured much of the brothel’s dirty face. The crude painting and a crooked sign in struggling writing proclaimed its name, but the building itself was ugly and even more ramshackle than its immediate neighbours. None of the men could understand why any man of discernment would want to seek amusement in such a place.
‘The girls here must be offering special favours,’ Trufo, a legionnaire, hissed at Crispus, who simply grunted in reply.
Constantinus frowned at both men before advancing to a set of raw wooden stairs. Careful of loose boards, he pounded on the door with his bare fist. There was no sign of either a door knocker or a bell that could be used to waken the building’s inhabitants.
Constantinus pounded again, but the house remained dark and uninviting.
Undismayed, he removed his dagge
r from its scabbard and rapped with the hilt, setting up such a racket that the noise should have woken the heaviest of sleepers. An oil lamp flickered to life in one of the adjacent buildings, but the Bower of Beauty remained silent and dark.
Eventually, a muffled female voice swore crudely from somewhere in the building’s upper storey, while Constantinus eventually heard dragging footsteps. Untrusting, he stepped back from the door and kept his dagger at the ready in his left hand.
The creak of rusting hinges heralded the opening of the unprepossessing entryway. A woman holding an oil lamp that reeked of fish oil peered out at them.
‘What do you want? This is no time to come looking for a girl. Come back tomorrow.’
The woman would have slammed the door shut in his face, but Constantinus thrust his shod foot into the space between the door and the doorframe. A blowsy face glared at him from out of the darkness.
Constantinus was immediately on his guard. Unless she was blind or drunk, the woman could hardly miss the polished armour and red cloaks worn by legionnaires. Even her affected language seemed false, as if she was trying desperately to sound and look as if everyone in this house was uneducated, stupid and harmless. He indicated that his torchbearer should illuminate the features of the woman who looked down on them.
The harridan had a wild, unbrushed tangle of red hair liberally streaked with white. Thick cosmetics had turned her wrinkled features into a parody of youth and her speech revealed that she had lost her two front teeth. The remainder of her mouth was filled with brown canines that jutted out from greyish gums. Her generous breasts were largely hidden by a dirty wrapper that had once been a beautiful silk shawl but was now stained with perspiration, food, wine and other nameless substances. Her feet were bare and dirty.
‘Paulus! Bind this harlot! Trufo? Send in five of the men to rouse the girls and anyone else who might be sleeping inside the house. You can drag Marcus out as politely as you can!’
Then, in mid-sentence, Constantinus became very still, like a hunting dog that suddenly takes the scent and stiffens in every muscle.
