“Yes, my lord.”
“That’s Crocus.” He bowed low in the direction of the emperor's table, and then stumbled after Valerius. Juliana’s stomach tightened. She’d been hoping Lucius, after the amount of wine he’d downed, might have forgotten about the task he’d given her.
Torchbearers with drawn swords escorted the group from the back entrance of the governor’s palace across a small brick-paved square to one of the largest taverns Juliana had ever seen. Constantine and some others from their table made up the rest of their party. The tavern had a pair of green glass oil lamps hanging outside. Inside, it was laid out like a villa with an ornamental garden at its core for guests to sit in and watch entertainments.
Dwarves dressed as legionaries ran and tumbled in the garden and around the tables, and as Constantine made his way past them they bumped into each other, as if they'd been distracted by the new guest. Then they unsheathed short wooden swords in mock anger at each other, to the amusement of the wealthy looking patrons. Valerius shouted at the dwarves. They ran off screaming, to the cheers of the crowd.
Then he led them to a large table and demanded wine, beer and fruit from the beaming serving girls. Everywhere she looked there were girls preening. She insisted on filling Lucius' and Constantine's goblets herself from the jugs that were brought, and then stood behind them, glaring at any of the serving girls who tried to catch their eye.
“This is the best moon’s milk, they tell me.” Valerius raised his goblet. He shook his other fist in the air. “A toast to our illustrious fathers. May our brothels always be as stuffed with talent as theirs.”
Everyone joined in the toast.
“You should know, Constantine, that I'm to be appointed a tax farmer in the north as soon as your father finishes up there. I do hope his legions do a better job than the Emperor Severus’. Squeezing provincials is not my idea of happiness, but if they're in fear of the legions the job will be a lot easier. And so, to the legions!” Another toast was drunk.
“I may end up a coin counter too, before my father finishes here,” said Constantine, wistfully. “Unfortunately, no legion could make that job easier for me.”
“No, surely not!” Valerius shouted. He pushed at Constantine as Juliana was refilling his goblet, causing her to spill a little wine on the table. Constantine simply looked up at her and smiled. She looked away. She’d met enough drunken slave boys to know they’d rape a hole in a wall if the sun had warmed it up.
“You are an experienced military commander. That’s what I heard. You should lead a legion. What a waste.” Valerius shook his head and drank deeply from his goblet. A serving girl with a low cleavage, exposing most of her breasts, and shifting, lizard eyes refilled it.
Soon a group of Valerius' acquaintances had gathered around them. They vied to entertain Constantine and Lucius with tales of their life in Londinium.
Then Valerius, who Juliana thought looked bored at not being the center of attention, suggested they all move to a different place not far away.
The tavern he led them all to was no more than a large circular hut with battered and stained war shields hanging from its walls, and a thick bed of rushes strewn on its lime-packed floor. A thatched roof stood above their heads supported by blackened timber beams. In the center of the room a round pit piled up high with firewood crackled. A column of smoke drifted to a hole in the center of the roof. Long tables circled the room, and from what she could see - it was dark in parts of the room - groups of bearded native Britons crowded most tables.
The place smelt of stale beer, sweat, wood smoke and spiced wine. A wild beating of hand drums filled the air as they entered. Then the drumming stopped, as if the drummers had belatedly seen intruders. Everyone in the roundhouse turned to glower at them. They were halfway across the room, heading for an empty table near the fire. Dice players at a nearby table, distracted from their gambling, looked up at them in disgust as they passed, clearly irritated at the intrusion.
Valerius waved to the drummers, shook his fist at the dice players, and greeted nearby tables with shouts of recognition. The drumming recommenced. Most people looked away. One old man stared quizzically at Juliana as she passed. It amazed her how different everybody looked here from the previous tavern.
The stubby tallow lamps on the tables were not nearly as bright as oil lamps too. Each table here was a yellow island amid shadows swirling.
Some of the tavern's patrons wore belted, dark woolen tunics. Many wore unusual vertically striped breeches. Cloaks were pinned at the shoulder with intricate gold or bone brooches. Hair, mostly brown or raven black, was worn long. It curled over shoulders or was plaited and held back with bronze pins. Faces were shaved, but many of the men had thick moustaches. Serving women carried jugs or plates of food and wore short wool tunics, their complexions ruddy and unadorned with the heavy pale creams Roman matrons favored.
A strange language filled the air, with only the occasional Latin word thrown in. One of the men at a nearby table was wearing a thick twisted torq of what looked like gold around his neck. The men around him looked like his bodyguards. When Valerius saw the man, he invited him to share their hospitality.
Juliana kept looking from one table to the next, trying not to stare for too long and attract unwanted attention. The atmosphere in the round house was raucous, aggressive, as if the men here wanted everyone to know they were different, not cowed by the Roman presence all around them.
Juliana was sent to fetch wine and beer with one of Valerius' slaves who'd accompanied them. When they returned the man with the torq was sitting opposite Constantine, at the end of their long darkly stained table. He was swaying from side to side. His thick black hair fell straight and loose over his shoulders. His long moustache would have earned him only ridicule in Bithynia, but in this place it looked normal. His face was scarred too, as if it had been clawed by a bear on one side. The only thing she found attractive about him was his ice-blue eyes. There was something familiar about them. Then it came to her. They were a similar shade of blue to her own.
She stood behind Constantine holding the wine jug, so she could hear what the man was saying.
“I am Morbod,” the man’s Latin lilted up and down. “My father is Aengus, King of the Ordovices, from the land by the Hibernian sea. His father was Nemed, also King, as was his father before, and his before that, all the way back to the time of the first people. You ask why I’m in Londinium. Well, I will tell you. I am looking for a beauty. An Olwen, who I will marry.” He grinned, displaying black teeth. “Now, before we go further with this chatter, who are you, and what brings you here to the land of the Brigantes?” He gave Constantine a granite stare.
Juliana waited, holding the jug of wine low.
“I am Constantine, the first son of the Emperor Chlorus. I am here with my father to bring the peace of Rome to all the peoples of this island. Will you drink with me, Morbod?”
Morbod took a moment longer than was polite to answer. “This your first time in Britannia?”
Constantine nodded.
“Well, we’ll have no bloody feud with you yet then, so ladle out the wine.”
Constantine motioned to Juliana.
She poured spiced wine for them both.
“So, who’s this Olwen you seek?” asked Constantine.
Morbod sneered.
“How should I know, I have not met her yet. If I had met her, I would not be sitting here. I would be splitting her with my cock.”
“I wish you good hunting.” Constantine raised his goblet.
Morbod stayed at the table.
“I hear your father comes to break the old treaty,” he said. Then he pushed his face toward Constantine's, while crashing his fist onto the tabletop. Valerius, who sat next to Constantine, reached for the dagger on his belt, but Constantine held his hand up and shook his head.
Morbod leaned forward some more. “Your father has been tricked. Why break with a hundred-year-old treaty and claim the rest of
this island now? Why?” His tone was contemptuous. “Because your father wants to feed his land hungry Alemanni warmongers, and that’s the truth. A truth the dogs in your Roman Forum know, even if you don’t. The Emperor Severus paid with his life for the last attempt to conquer Caledonia. I hope your father doesn't make the same mistake, or you.”
“It’s the Picts who break the treaty, with their raids and their murders,” replied Constantine.
“Raids to retake cattle stolen by Romans, and the death of the magistrate responsible seems a petty excuse to bring war on the heads of all those beyond the Wall,” said Morbod. He leaned toward Constantine. “I hope your spies have informed you of the druid’s spell that lies over Caledonia. A spell that no Roman can ever break. Hadrian knew all about it. Carausius recently lost his pride learning about it. Your father may have to learn about it the hard way too.” He raised his goblet, downed his drink in one swallow. Then he slammed it on the table. Some drinkers nearby put their own goblets down and stared.
“Your father could hunt there instead,” he continued, in a friendlier manner. “Pursue the Caledonian boar. Maybe he'll be luckier than Severus or my friend Carausius.” A growling laugh bubbled up from deep inside the man's chest.
He looked at Juliana, who was refilling his goblet. She was standing with her head lowered in the correct way, but she felt his gaze on her. Their eyes met for a moment.
“You have a slave from Britannia, Constantine?” He looked puzzled. Then, leaning forward, he addressed Juliana. “There is the look of a Briton in those eyes. Are you from here?” He added something in his own language that she didn't understand. She frowned at him. He knew she wasn't allowed speak to her master's guests. She felt angry. Constantine would think she'd encouraged the man by looking at him. Then Lucius intervened. He was sitting next to Morbod.
“You are only half right, friend. Her mother was a Persian, but her father was a Brigantes, called Arell, she claims, though this is her first time anywhere near his island. She’s a passable dream reader, so Constantine tells us. Perhaps even as good as the priestess, Sybellina.” He looked up at Juliana.
She stared back, her expression hardening. Everyone around them was looking at her. Her cheeks burned from the unwanted attention. She wanted to run.
“I hear dream reading is a skill many possess here,” continued Lucius.
Morbod bowed in her direction. His brow was furrowed. “Few possess the gift of the sight. It is a special gift.” He put his hand up, his palm facing Juliana. “I feel it around you. You are a daughter of the great Queen all right.” He turned to Constantine. “You pick your slaves well, Roman.” He looked back at her.
Her mouth opened, as if she might ask him something. Then she closed it again. This was not the time.
He stared at her, then answered her as if he knew the question she was thinking. “Yes, I have seen your face before. Your kin live in Eboracum. They make the iron swords that cannot be broken. All their secrets came from the top of the world and were learnt from daemons.” He spat on the floor near her feet. She took a step back, looked around.
Directly behind her, sitting on a low stool, was an old beggar with a puckered scar where one of his eyes should have been. The beggar's tunic was fashioned from untanned animal hide. Shapes traced in faded purple and yellow dyes swirled all over it. He had a mat of twisted slate-gray hair hanging down like a tail over his shoulder.
The drumming was louder now, the air stuffy, the room spinning, everything in shadow, getting darker, black.
As Juliana slumped, the beggar reached out with both hands and caught her deftly. His movements belied his age. Constantine leant forward to help, but he was too far away. Lucius moved off the bench and assisted the old man.
“Give her a kick,” shouted Valerius. “I find that works wonders with slaves.”
“I'll bring her outside,” said the beggar, softly. “She'll come around in the air.” Lucius rolled his eyes. He was drunk. The beggar grunted, picked Juliana up as if she were a baby and carried her toward the door. Some of the locals cheered as they passed and winked at him. Juliana was only groggy but came around completely in his arms. “Ow!” Someone had pinched her bottom. She moved, wiggling out of his grasp. The beggar set her down.
“I’m thirsty.” Her legs were weak under her. She crinkled her nose. What was that smell? Lucius, who had followed with a displeased look on his face, put his arm around her middle and guided her out through the doorway.
“That’ll teach you,” he said. Beyond the doorway, lying on its side, a long block of granite rested, a vestige of some old tribal monument. She sat on it. Under her sandals tufts of grass alternated with bare earth. She felt a lot better in the cooler air.
“Slaves and taverns never mix. We'll be leaving soon. Wait here.” Lucius bent down and looked in her eyes, examining them.
“I’ll be better soon. I just need some air for a few moments.” She wanted to add that he’d be drinking piss from the tavern owner by the end of the night if he kept drinking, but instead she clamped her mouth tight.
“Don’t forget your duty. You cost too much to end up being a waste. The price of a pretty slave girl is an extortion in this town. I do not want to replace you. And if you run away now I will see you cut open when we catch you.”
She nodded. He shook her shoulder roughly and stood up. Then he gave the beggar who’d lifted her a coin and ushered the man back into the tavern.
She took a deep breath. She didn’t care about Lucius or what he thought of her. Everything had changed. She would find her father. She could feel it in her bones. She'd met someone who knew about his people. It was a sign. It had to be. Coincidences didn’t simply happen.
It was the spirits intervening. Her head felt light, as if a summer wind was blowing through it. But her mind was clear, all her fears carried away on the wind. Her father would buy her freedom. She’d seen a sign in her dreams, a bird high up only the night before, circling, flying away, then coming back to circle her again. It was a sign. Birds lived free. She would too. Now it would come true.
She looked up at the sky. Stars shone bright, like pearls strewn across the sky. He might even let her live in his villa. Constantine would visit. She laughed. Better not to think of such things, slaves existed only to be used and thrown away by men of his class. She would not be stupid enough to hope for anything with Constantine.
A woman was singing in the tavern. A hush descended until all she could hear was the voice and distant dogs barking. She couldn't understand the words, but the song was beautiful, haunting. It reminded her of something from long ago. She looked toward the doorway. She should go back in.
“They sing the lay of Myrddin too slow this far south,” said a voice in guttural Latin. She looked around. The beggar was standing in the shadows.
The singer slowed, as the song turned sad. “It’s the fate of all Brigantes to be drawn to the lady of the lake,” he said.
She looked away.
“Is that my repayment for saving your pretty head?”
She brushed at her tunic, sat up straighter, moved her feet and got ready to run. “Does my rescuer have a name?”
“I am called Tiresias by the mighty Romans. It is the name of a blind wanderer. They like to joke. I was gifted with only part of Tiresias’ haul, you see, as such is the way of fickle luck.” He walked toward her. The whiff of unwashed flesh came to her. The breeze caught wisps of her hair that had come loose and sent them flying across her face. She brushed them away. It felt cooler now, almost cold, as he approached.
“Your master says you are a Brigantes, from the clan of Arell.” His voice had a mesmerizing lilt to it.
She nodded.
His face darted forward like a bird about to pounce. “Be warned then, slave. The Great Mother is all powerful. She knows the way to the one god. But it is blood that makes her spells work. Her priestess travels with you, I hear. Is that true? And her name is Sybellina?”
Juliana nodded.
Tiresias’ Latin was accented, difficult to understand.
“Then you must be careful, Brigantes. The powers that raised up the Brigantes are in you. I can sense it. She may too. They are the powers of Myrddin, and the son of Aedd, and of the great lady too. They help us to read dreams, see death approaching, to sow fear, and overthrow all men. They are the powers that took the Emperor Severus to the other side. You have them too.” He took a deep breath, leaned toward her. “You are more than you seem. If you need help, seek me out. It is well known that ones such as Sybellina do not abide competition. Leave word for me in any place like this. Be wary though, I sense she is powerful. They train them well in Rome.”
Juliana's blood was pumping fast. She could feel it in her neck. He was speaking to her as if he knew her. She had the strange sensation she'd been expected here. That he’d been waiting for her.
The verses of the song came louder now. More people had joined in the singing. It sounded as if everyone in the tavern was banging their goblets on the table together. The double beat echoed in her head. She looked toward the doorway. A golden glow emanated from it. She turned back. She wanted to ask Tiresias about Sybellina’s powers.
But he was gone.
Through the doorway she saw Constantine and the others coming toward her. Morbod was behind them, his goblet in the air, toasting their departure. She stood as the group poured out. A blonde, overly buxom serving girl was clinging to Constantine's arm. Valerius was calling loudly for them all to follow him to another drinking house, but Constantine shook his head and pushed himself free from the girl. After a few irate words were traded, soothing coins placated her, and she ambled back inside.
Back at Valerius' villa, after all the cloaks had been hung up, Juliana bowed good night, and went to her room. It was not a good idea to stay around after your master had been drinking. Every slave knew that. Though there were some who didn't care, of course, they slept with their masters to save themselves from the whip, or simply to eat better. But that was not her way. She'd seen too many tearful slaves handing babies over for exposure, some more than once, pitifully trying to hide a coin in the baby's clothes so someone might take it in, or worse still, slaves suffering the terrors of the pox if they’d been shared around on nights such as this.
The Sign of The Blood Page 31