by Mia Marlowe
Sometimes he allowed himself to fantasize about doing as she begged, about stealing her away from the Imperial Palace and whisking her out of the city.
But where could they go?
Not to the North. No one within three hundred land-miiller of the fjords would offer him rest or shelter, food or fire.
After what he'd done, he couldn't blame them.
It was just as well that he held himself aloof from her. If he didn't allow her close, he couldn't hurt her. But he did wonder from time to time, say every other breath or so, how her silken arms would feel wrapped around him and if her mouth tasted as delectable as it looked.
No, he told himself with vehemence. Nothing good could come from wanting what he couldn't have. He already knew he was cursed where women were concerned, so he protected Valdis from himself by scowling at her every chance he got.
“Mayhap the eunuch will take pity on you and let you practice the alphabet for the rest of the afternoon.” Erik didn't know how to write Greek himself, but Damian Aristarchus seemed to want Valdis to learn. If her master took over her lessons, it would afford Erik a chance to escape to the exercise yard below. He seriously needed to work off some frustration. “Where is that tablet and stylus?”
Valdis crossed her slender arms on the table before her, buried her head in them and wept. Erik was dumbfounded. How could a woman who refused to scream when the bastinado was applied to her bare feet erupt into tears over a language lesson?
“What's this?” Damian demanded. “What have you done to make her cry?”
Erik caught Valdis stealing a sly glance at him through her parted fingers. Was the woman born with the ability to dissemble or had she practiced on other unsuspecting men?
“I've only carried out your orders,” he told Damian gruffly.
“I didn't tell you to vex her beyond bearing.” The Greek slid next to Valdis and put a brotherly arm around her shoulders.
Erik narrowed his eyes at the eunuch. The intent look of interest on Damian's face was anything but brotherly.
“That's enough work for one day.” Damian rubbed his palm up and down the smooth skin of her bare arm in a way that made Erik's fingers itch to strangle him.
“Good,” Erik said, turning away. He needed to escape before he acted on his desires.
All of them.
“I didn't say you are excused. I still need your services as a translator, but Valdis will not be forced to speak another syllable of Greek for the rest of the day if she has no wish to do so,” Damian declared, fawning over her like a lovesick swain. He made a circular motion with one hand, a signal for Erik to relay his message.
Valdis rewarded the eunuch with a smile of promise that would have done credit to the love goddess Freya herself. Irritation boiled in Erik's chest. He wished it didn't bother him so that the smile wasn't directed at him.
“Come.” Damian raised her to her feet. “We are going to the Hippodrome. The Blues are taking another pass at the Greens, much good it may do them. Chariot races. I think you'll enjoy this.”
Valdis watched his lips as if the meaning of his words might be divined by close scrutiny, a tiny smile of triumph tugging at the corners of her luscious mouth. Erik realized she understood far more of the Byzantine's tongue than she could speak.
“You too, Northman,” Damian said without taking his dark gaze off Valdis. “I need you to be my mouth.”
Next you'll want me to be your cock as well. Erik bit back the thought sullenly. His member rose merrily at the barest thought of bedding this bewitching Norsewoman.
The eunuch offered his arm to Valdis and she took it without hesitation. Erik was left to trail after them like an Alsatian guard dog as they wended through the corridors and past colonnaded fountains and statuary. They strolled between rows of cypress lining the walkway like crisp green spears and finally passed through the heavy gilded gates that marked the end of the protected confines of the Imperial grounds.
On race day, the city gave itself over to every conceivable excess. At one crossroad, Valdis saw a girl doing handsprings on the cobbled pavement. Each time her lovely legs waved in the air, her palla slid down and bared the lower half of her lithe body, offering a glancing peep at the triangle of curly black hairs at the apex of her legs. When a tagmata tossed a silver nomismata to her, she did a handstand and let her garment drape down to her armpits for several heartbeats. Her little breasts puckered under the soldier's scrutiny like ripe figs.
Valdis suddenly felt better about being considered Damian's property. Though her freedom of movement was curtailed, Erik was right. Her cosseted existence in the Greek's plush chambers was far better than what awaited an unprotected woman on the streets of Miklagard.
“Look out!” Erik grabbed her as a heavy, wheeled cage rumbled past. He pinned her against a whitewashed building, placing his own body between her and the crowded street. Over his shoulder, Valdis saw a pair of gigantic striped cats snarling from behind the bars of the cage. One swipe of a set of cruel claws missed Erik's head by finger-widths. A carnivorous stench wafted behind the cats even once the carriage turned the corner.
Valdis found she was shaking. Truly, danger came in many forms in this vast city. She looked up at Erik, surprised that he troubled himself to shove her from harm when he took such pains to keep his distance as he tutored her. The hard lines of his face softened as he gazed back down at her.
“Are you all right?” His voice was husky, his pupils dilated to reduce the gray of his irises to slender rings.
She nodded, not willing to trust her voice. His body was warm and hard and she could feel his heart hammering against her breasts. Her own pulse beat a brisk tattoo in concert. Even though Damian treated her well, since she'd been sold into slavery the only man who had protected her from anything was this unlikely Northman.
“Thank you,” she finally managed to say. One corner of Erik's mouth lifted in a half smile even as his eyes narrowed in speculation. He showed no sign of releasing her. Valdis wondered if, in his own way, the big Varangian wasn't more dangerous than the great cats.
Damian gave an order and Erik slowly stepped back. She tucked her hand into the crook of the eunuch's elbow, feeling as if she'd escaped peril twice in as many heartbeats.
Street vendors hawked their wares with singsong cadence as the crowd surged toward the Hippodrome.
“Hold a moment,” Erik said when they passed a particularly aromatic stall. “Palace food will keep a body and soul together, but you've not known the taste of Miklagard till you've tried pastfeli.”
The eunuch made complaining noises.
“He's concerned we'll arrive after the race is over if we stop for every sweetmeat seller on the Mese,” Erik explained, then barked a few syllables in Damian's direction. “He wants you to learn. I told him language is more than words. It's a people's whole experience and this is one you won't want to miss.” Erik signaled his order to the merchant and fished the appropriate payment from his leather pouch. He offered her a glistening bite. “Try this, Valdis. After that scare, you look pale. You need to eat something.”
She hesitantly parted her lips and when he placed the pastfeli on her tongue she felt as though a ray of sunshine had dissolved in her mouth. She savored the sweetness of honey and detected the flavor of sesame seeds and orange as well. She licked her lips and asked for more.
“In Greek,” he said, cocking his head at her.
She stumbled through the correct phrase and was rewarded with a square of pastfeli served on a broad grape leaf. A bit of the treat slipped through her sticky fingers and dropped to the paving stones. A small furry body darted through the forest of legs and slurped it up before the honey could settle into the cracks. It was a scruffy little black dog, its snarled hair falling in wisps around its thin body. The tiny creature reared up on its haunches and pawed the air like a miniature stallion, begging for more.
“Looks like you've attracted a rat,” Erik said with a laugh at the dog's antics.
Erik shrugged and relayed her question to the Greek.
“Something crossed with a Maltese. Probably covered with vermin,” Damian said, grasping her elbow with firmness. “Come.”
With reluctance, Valdis let herself be led along, but when she glanced back, the dog followed, skittering between the multitude of feet. Then they entered the broad gate that led to the Hippodrome and Valdis forgot about the dog.
Even in her dreams she'd never imagined such a massive structure. They passed through a vaulted tunnel and emerged near the low wall separating the spectators from a large oval track. A spina ran through the middle of the arena, studded with statuary, bronze equines, ample naked women and well-endowed men, and spiked with obelisks at intervals. From the lowest tiers of seating, Valdis looked up as rank upon rank, the simple benches gave way to porticos and private boxes. Halfway to the heavens, the outer walls of the Hippodrome coliseum curved in, offering shade to the most desirable seating. Pennants stood at attention along the ridgeline. Valdis imagined even Valhalla, the great hall reserved for the glorious dead, would fit snugly into one end of the sand-covered arena floor.
Damian gestured for her to follow and she climbed toward the dizzying heights. The crowd was awash in colors—verdant, cerulean, jet and dazzling white— proclaiming allegiance to one of the four chariot teams that would shortly compete. Damian ushered her into a well-appointed private box.
Trumpets brayed and the clarion call echoed around the oval. The crowd responded with a roar rivaling thunder, a wall of sound that pressed against Valdis's ears till they ached. Then there was silence, as if every soul in the vast Hippodrome dared not even draw breath. Valdis heard the pennants above her snap in the breeze.
Across the wide space, a glittering figure emerged from a dark tunnel to take his place in an ornate, well guarded box. Jewels winked from his stiff vestments and light splayed from the diadem on his head. As one, the crowd fell to its knees.
“The Bulgar-Slayer himself,” Erik said under his breath, tugging Valdis down beside him. The small hairs on his bare arms tickled against hers. She resisted the urge to move away, enjoying the heat of his skin so near.
Trumpets squealed again and the emperor raised one hand in greeting. The crowd voiced its delirium at this small gesture with another full-throated roar.
From one end of the arena, a herd of antelope was released to spring across the open space. Then a door opened from the floor of the oval and two great cats like the ones Valdis had seen earlier sprang up from the depths to pursue their hoofed prey. Once each cat made a kill, handlers whipped the felines back to their subterranean lair.
One spectacular after another paraded across the broad oval for the crowd's amusement. A girl did acrobatics on horseback that no sane person would attempt on solid ground, leaps and twists and harrowing near-misses as she vaulted from one galloping steed to another. The audience gasped when it seemed she'd fallen, but the equestrienne grasped her mount's mane and bounded up to its back once again. The girl was hailed with adulation worthy of a goddess, the roar of approval making normal conversation impossible. The girl circuited the field, turning flips in concert with her horse's pounding hooves. Valdis thought fleetingly of the poor acrobat she'd seen on the streets, baring her body for a slim silver coin.
Damian hardly spared a glance for the activity on the arena below. His gaze flicked from one box to the next, watching the wealthy sip their amber-colored wine or indulge in the decadently expensive flavored ices. The luxury item was brought to the great city by runners in straw-packed boxes from the mountain heights.
“Don't mind him,” Erik said when she asked him about the Greek's inattention. “The citizens of Miklagard set a great store in being seen in the right places by the right people. If our Greek didn't notice them, it would be tantamount to an insult. Besides, he's probably also calculating who's intriguing with whom. Politics is a blood sport here and the slightest thing can tip one faction ahead of another.”
Erik reached into the pouch at his waist and drew out an odd assortment of leather and clear round glass. He strapped the lenses to either end of the leather tube and held it to one eye.
“You might enjoy this,” he said as he handed the strange ocular device to her. “You can see the wart on the emperor's nose from here with that.”
Valdis peered through the tube as he instructed and stepped back in surprise. The emperor was practically in her lap. The cunning invention brought the Byzantine leader close enough that she felt she ought to be able to reach out and pluck one of the gems from his hem.
“There's no wart on his nose,” Valdis said as she examined the leader of the Byzantines. Though he scarcely moved a muscle, the man's darting eyes held a furtive, sad look. “But he is wearing the most ridiculous scarlet boots.”
Damian spoke a few words and she looked over to see he was finally watching the arena, where archers demonstrated their skill with flaming arrows.
“The eunuch wants you to look at the portico draped in purple at the north end and tell him what you see,” Erik said.
Valdis swiveled the device in the right direction. “There's a young man there, dressed in white linen with a purple border. Dark hair, neatly curled beard. He's laughing and drinking from a jeweled cup.”
“Describe the people who are with him.” Erik relayed Damian's new command.
“There's a lovely woman at his side with bare breasts,” Valdis said, a blush creeping up her neck. “She must rouge her nipples. They're as scarlet as the emperor's boots. She looks totally unconcerned about her state of undress, but frankly the man seems more interested in what the older man is saying to him than he is in her.”
“Damian says the young man is Leo Porphyrogenito, the emperor's nephew. The woman is the Cretan princess. Women of that isle wear a palla that displays their charms. Sensible custom,” Erik said. “No disappointments later.”
Valdis stuck out her tongue at him.
“What about the older man?” he asked, totally unperturbed by her rude gesture.
“Darker skin. Even though his beard is shot with silver, he's still a hawk of a man. Well dressed in a flowing robe. The way it hangs it must be silk; very fine silk.” In the short time she'd been in Damian's household, Valdis learned to appreciate the feel of that lustrous fabric on her skin. “He wears a jewel on each finger of his hand.”
“The silk merchant,” Damian said under his breath, nodding as if the information Erik repeated only confirmed a suspicion, and then he murmured another order.
Erik took the seeing glass back from Valdis. “The eunuch says that's enough for now. He wants you to enjoy the show.”
Below them, a mock battle raged purporting to show the emperor, Basil the Bulgar-Slayer, pushing back the unwashed hordes from the borders of his realm. The “Huns” were defeated with no apparent casualties to the Byzantine legions.
“I'll wager it wasn't as easy as that,” Erik said as he watched the set piece with the eye of a warrior.
Valdis cast him a sideways glance. His mouth was drawn in a hard line, his jaw a block of granite. Controlled power rippled through his honed body. Even at rest, Erik was formidable. In the grip of the black berserkr rage, he'd be terrifying, Valdis decided.
“Oh!” Something brushed against her ankle and she felt a wet tongue on her skin. It was the little dog again. She bent and scooped it up before it could shy away. “What are you doing here?”
“Probably hoping you'll drop something again.” Erik didn't reach over to pet the animal, but his face lighted with a quick grin. “Looks like you've made at least one friend in this city.”
“Only one?” she asked pointedly. “We've spent weeks practically living in each other's pockets. You could have been killed protecting me from those huge cats today. Are you telli
ng me I may not consider you a friend?”
He leaned toward her, resting one of his brawny forearms on the marble balustrade. What was it she read beneath the ice of his gray eyes? Pain, certainly, but there was something else. Wariness, the caution of a wild creature who dares not approach from fear of what she might do to him.
Or what he might do to her.
With obvious effort, he turned away to peer down at the oval track. “Trust me, Valdis. You do not want to be my friend.”
Her chest constricted at his rebuff. She should have known better. Even though he spoke her language, she couldn't trust this Northman. Hadn't he told her so in a dozen ways since he took up the job of teaching her Greek? She could rely on no one but herself.
The little dog wiggled, trying to free itself. After Valdis crooned small endearments and held it close, the animal ceased struggling and nuzzled the crook in her arm, obviously deciding she was trustworthy. She'd felt so alone since she was ripped from her homeland, it was comforting to have the warmth of another beating heart close to hers, even if it only belonged to a mangy stray.
A guttural chant started in the lower tiers, where the dust-choked air nearly blocked the patrons' view of what was happening in the grand oval. Even the upper ring of well-heeled watchers took up the echoing cry. The crowd was weary of the preliminaries. They demanded the main event.
From the far end of the arena, four chariots burst into the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. The horses, four to a team, were caparisoned in garish-hued silk with plumes bobbing from headpieces. The drivers wore matching silk cloaks that billowed out like banners as they circuited the oval, drinking in the crowd's admiration. After one complete circle, the racers skidded to a stop before the emperor's box to make their obeisance to the Ruler of the World. Hostlers stripped the showy finery from the horses, leaving the animals dancing in their traces. The drivers divested themselves of their cloaks and shining breastplates. The men leaped up onto the chariots, oiled skin gleaming, clad in naught but a strip of silk about their loins in the colors of emerald, sapphire, ivory and jet.
