The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Kyar sat on the edge of the straw mattress brooding, staring into empty space. I gently tapped the pallet side with my boot and she slowly raised her head, and viewed me. “Oh, it’s you,” she said in a voice of indifference. “Humph, favor or not, I see you want me like the rest, don’t you? Oh well, what’s the difference, you paid for me, so I’m yours.”

  She pulled off her tunic revealing her full breasts, ample for her tender age, and a well-developed body. Her clothes had only accentuated her form. Shivering, she slid beneath the fur blankets.

  *

  “I’m not used to someone treating me so gently,” she said later, as we lay together in the dimly lit room. “You’re not like the others, they’re animals.”

  “No reason to be rough. You’re a woman like any other, slave or not.”

  “I’m a princess,” she intoned, studying my face for signs of disbelief. “Humph, most men think I’m a piece of furniture, a footstool. But slaves have feelings, too. And I wasn’t always a slave,” she said bitterly. “My father is King of the Chatti. I will never forgive him for killing my mother and selling me to Rix.” Her face turned crimson, she grimaced, and her eyes slowly clouded with tears. I pulled her head to my shoulder, caressed her softly, and ran my fingers through her perfumed, satin hair. I wondered how many times she had told that story to others. Was it true?

  Kyar’s weeping subsided. “You’re so kind to me,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I treated you the way I did.”

  “Pretend that it wasn’t me,” I soothed. “How long have you been with Rix?”

  “About four months. He bought me two or three months before we came to Britannia.”

  “I’ve been to Rix’s once since our troop arrived. Why didn’t I see you then?”

  “I must have been recovering from one of his beatings—sometimes its days before I heal.”

  “That stinking dog!” Didn’t Rix realize he was destroying good property, a person of value? What a waste to keep injuring her.

  “Please, don’t say anymore,” she whispered. “Someone might hear and tell him.”

  I nodded. Although her room was a few feet from the cribs, the whispers and amorous sounds of embrace seeped through the flimsy wall.

  “Why did your father kill your mother?” I finally asked.

  She gently stroked the bridge of my nose. Spent, I struggled to remain awake as she soothed my brow with gentle circles of her fingers.

  “He accused her of sleeping with another man, which was a lie, she loved my father.” Kyar seemed ill at ease discussing her tragic past.

  Although she wouldn’t tell me, I was familiar enough with Chatti customs to know what happened. Most likely, Kyar’s mother was stripped naked before the family and flogged through the village stockade by her father. Afterwards, she was shoved into a wicker basket, dumped into a slimy bog, and died a humiliating death by drowning.

  “Why would he sell you?” I asked.

  “He wanted no reminder of my mother,” she answered in a harsh whisper. “He said I resembled her too much.”

  “What happened?” I said sleepily.

  “You don’t care, it’s all you can do to stay awake!”

  Another round of giggling and whispers seeped through the wall.

  I grabbed her finger. “Woman, stop putting me to sleep, and I’ll listen to you all day.”

  She pressed her lips together and for a few seconds remained silent as if pondering her next words. “Rix’s caravan camped next to my father’s stockade the day after he murdered Mother. Father came to me and . . .” Her eyes grew cold, and she drew her blanket tight at her neck and paused. “He sold me. I never knew a man before . . .” She gasped. “Rix took me. Gods, I was butchered by a monster. My insides were torn apart.” She paused and quietly sighed. “I was resigned to his raping me, and scared half to death, then he slapped me over and over and then . . .” She stopped, not saying anything for a moment. “I’ve hated him ever since, and every time he touches me—he knows it.”

  “Did you try running away?”

  Kyar clenched her fist. “Of course, but he caught and beat me. I might have been killed.”

  “I don’t see any marks.”

  “He can hurt you so the marks don’t show. After all, he doesn’t want to spoil the goods,” she added in a scathing voice.

  “That sounds like the old bastard.”

  Kyar snuggled closer to me. “I hope you return. I want to see you again.”

  I wondered how many others she had purred those same words to in the night. She sounded sincere enough, and I had to admit she was very good.

  “Your time is almost up, so you have to leave, but come back, will you?” she pleaded. “You’re so gentle with me, most men aren’t.”

  “I will,” I answered quietly and grinned. I put on my clothes and returned to the table where Crispus waited.

  Chapter 10

  Three days later news arrived that General Sabinus had marched to Noviomagnus with two cohorts, nearly one thousand legionaries. To ensure King Verica’s loyalty, he took his daughter, Eleyne, as hostage. The following day raiders assaulted five Roman outposts, but inflicted little damage. The accusing finger was pointed at Bodvac, Eleyne’s betrothed, who fled Noviomagnus the night she became a guest of the Romans.

  “I’ve heard another rumor about moving out. Anything to it?” Crispus asked. He slid the brass scraping strigil across my shoulders, as we sat in the tepidarium, the warm room of the camp bath. Despite his ministrations, and taking a dip in the pool’s tepid waters, I still felt the intense heat of the caldarium, the hot room, coursing through my body, where I had started by sweating off the dust of a long patrol.

  “Nothing, but with the campaign season almost here, it’s bound to be soon. Then we’ll see if Verica will stay in his hill fortress.”

  Constructed of stone, the small bathhouse sat outside the fort above the river. Fires fed through two brick-enclosed stoke holes at the end of the building. Steam from the heated waters were forced through air channels running under the brick and tile floors and through the walls. Sunlight illuminated the vaulted room through four small, opaque glass windows at the base of the roof. At the far end a narrow hallway lead to the hot room—a light cloud of steam wafted down the passageway in our direction. I wiped the sweat from my brow and glanced towards the god-like bust of Emperor Claudius displayed on a marble pedestal in an alcove of the stone wall. I wondered if he was the fool rumors claimed him to be.

  “Gods, we’ve got his daughter,” Crispus said interrupting my thoughts, “that’ll keep him tied down, especially after the raids.”

  “Maybe. But I think they’re accusing the wrong man. My gut feeling tells me Verica’s advisor, Togidubnus, is the one behind the attacks. He’s using Bodvac to divert blame from himself.” Known to be Romanized, Tiberius Claudius Togidubnus had ambitions to succeed Verica as the Roman puppet king of the Regni and Atrebates.

  “You sound like a politician fixing the blame,” Crispus said. He continued scraping down my back. “So what if it’s a lackey or a hothead? We’re soldiers. Let the generals figure it out.”

  “It’s only a guess,” I answered, “but I know this much about the Celts—once they give their word in public, they honor it. Think of Verica’s sworn oath to the emperor. That’s not to say he will, but I hear Togidubnus hasn’t sworn an oath to anyone. He’s using Bodvac and ingratiating himself to the Romans at the same time.”

  “Bodvac didn’t give his either,” Crispus grumbled. “Anyway, Verica’s daughter’s still the cause of the raids.”

  I twisted my head and saw Crispus out of the corner of my eye. “No, the Romans are, taking her hostage. The attacks give Vespasian the excuse he needs to launch another offensive against Caratacus.”

  “But Bodvac fled to the Durotrigians.”

  “And we know from Cadwal’s confession they are allying themselves with Caratacus.” I turned away and watched the steam drifting up as wispy bands of silvery
and delicate pearl gray from the heated pool.

  “All I can say is, we’d better be marching soon,” Crispus said.

  “And keep you away from Rix and his lovelies?” I mocked, then winced as he scratched my back sharply.

  “You’re no different. I saw how you took to that German wench, Kyar. She’s a pretty one, but don’t let your spear do your thinking.”

  “Who says I am?”

  “By the look in your eyes when we left, your spear’s the only brain you have,” he said. “Hades, think of her as a good-tumble and nothing else, or you’ll get in trouble.”

  “Like you said once before, I’m a grown lad. I can take care of myself.”

  He dropped the strigil on the bench, the metallic thud echoing through the small bathhouse. “Aye, but consider this. She’ll smile sweetly as long you jingle your coppers, but short her one copper as and she’ll claw your eyes out.”

  “Gods, you act as if I’m going to marry her.”

  Crispus stood and threw off his towel. He jumped into the warm pool and splashed me, then spat out a mouthful of water.

  “I didn’t say you were. But it wouldn’t be the first time a man has fallen for a whore.”

  He bobbed his head again, which gave me a moment to suppress a flash of temper. “She’s not one by choice. Any other objections?”

  “Yes. She can’t cook!” he retorted. “All she can do is—” His voice trailed off, and he grinned.

  Emerging from the pool, Crispus retrieved his towel and dried off. “I know it’s not her fault, but it’s obvious some women don’t mind. That doesn’t bother me, it’s Rix.”

  “What about that thief?”

  “You know he’s a treacherous bastard. He’ll do anything to fuck up your intentions, if you have any. If nothing else, he’ll raise the price if you buy her.”

  “My only intention is to enjoy her every chance I get.”

  “Just beware friend, anything can happen. Personally, I think any man’s a fool who gets himself tied to any female. I like my freedom.”

  *

  That evening I visited Kyar. Rix seated me at an empty table in a corner of the tavern. The place was ablaze with the light of foul-smelling candles and smoky olive-oil lamps. Kyar waited on the nearby tables. She spotted me, and a broad smile crossed her lips, but her expression quickly changed, her look sober. No doubt she didn’t want her besotted customers to get the wrong idea.

  She strolled by my table and, bending over, poured my cup. “You came back,” she whispered in surprise. Her beautiful white teeth sparkled.

  “I promised, didn’t I?”

  “But I didn’t believe it. You know how soldiers are, making promises, but never keeping them.”

  “I suppose a lot don’t.” I’d been guilty myself.

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “Crispus? He’s on picket duty. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. Sigrid will be disappointed, though. She likes him.”

  At a table across from us, Sigrid giggled uproariously while being pawed by a drunken infantryman. Another soldier lay passed out next to his feet.

  I shrugged. “His loss. Right now, I’m more interested in how Rix is treating you.”

  Kyar pursed her lips. “The same,” she answered.

  “You know you’ve got to stay out of his way.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No arguments,” I whispered. “If you don’t start behaving yourself, he’ll kill you. I won’t let it happen, do you understand? You’re too—” I paused, struggling for the right word. “Too nice,” I added, immediately unhappy with the word.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good, that’s all I ask.”

  She moved on to the other tables, promising to return shortly.

  I sat drinking and waiting for her, and watched fat, ugly cockroaches racing up the leather hided wall, disappearing behind the pole of the wooden frame that supported the tent. I scratched my cheek and wondered why I was so intrigued with Kyar. True, she was young and pretty, but there was a bit more than just her womanhood. I reached beneath my tunic and absently jingled the copper coins in my pouch hanging from the waist of my breeches—the ones Crispus assured me I’d need.

  Kyar had been forced into prostitution or die. I didn’t like the word whore, but it was true. In spite of her situation, she intruded on my thoughts several times while on patrol, taking my mind from my duties.

  She reminded me of a beautiful lynx—hostile, suspicious, and lashing out when attacked or mistreated. Kyar literally had fire in her eyes. Yet she responded to kindness and tenderness, and after being in Rix’s clutches for nearly five months, needed a lot of it. The degrading conditions of slavery bring out the worst in the best of people.

  Kyar returned. “I’m going to my cubicle now. Hurry, get in line so you’ll be with me first.”

  I paid the old Gallic woman triple the usual rate, allowing me three hours with Kyar. She led me to Kyar’s room.

  This time there wasn’t any resignation in her voice. “Here, let me,” Kyar said, helping me to pull off my tunic. Quickly, she unlaced the front of my blue, woolen trousers. As I dropped them, she squirmed out of her long, tartan tunic and slipped between the furs on her bed pallet.

  I slid in beside her. I brought my hand to her face, and with the tip of my fingers stroked the line of her soft, curving jaw.

  “No, Marcellus, I want you now, the caressing can wait.”

  Before, when I had given myself to Kyar, I thought I knew what love making was all about. But she gave herself like a woman seeing her man off to war, returning the passion tenfold. We became one, as if in communion with the gods. Our love making swirled in a maelstrom of ecstasy, rising to heights I never dreamed possible. In a sublime moment of rapture, we responded to one another’s most subtle movements. Was this the magic promised by the muses, by Ovid and Sappho? A magic you never wanted to end?

  I don’t know how long we made love—I wanted it to last forever. Then in a final burst, we came together, our voices crying as one. Gradually, we melted away, spent, briefly drifting off to sleep.

  *

  Later, as I held Kyar in my arms, she told me about her life among the Chatti. She was amused to learn that I had fought her people and considered them bandits.

  “You are no better than we, bandits indeed,” she chided in a harsh whisper. “After all, you’re the invaders. My father fought for what was rightfully his. The land belonged to our people before you Romans came.”

  “So you’re a politician among your other talents,” I teased. As always, sounds of passion from the other couples seemed to seep through the leather walls.

  Playfully, she gave my cheek a soft slap. “That’s not funny. He is my father, and was defending our homeland.” She stroked my brow. “You know I might have seen you at a distance when my father fought you Romans.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The women followed the men to battle. We brought food and tended their wounds. We compared the gashes of men folk with warriors belonging to other women. We were so proud. My father and brothers had the most wounds—they were the bravest of all our fighters.”

  “You mean they didn’t think about survival?”

  “Dying is better than being captured, or fleeing like a coward. Before going into battle we reminded the men of what could happen to their wives and daughters if they were taken as slaves.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We screamed warnings, and then bared our breasts. It was enough. You killed many of our men, but never captured us.”

  “But your father sold you.”

  “Yes,” she answered slowly. “Yes, he did.” Kyar bit her lip, and tears streamed from her eyes. For a moment, she wept. “My mother was innocent of my father’s charges, but I’m not. No man will ever want me, not a whore.”

  I understood. The Germans considered any young woman who lost her virginity before reaching the age of marriage an outcast and a slut. “May
be not a German—”

  “No man,” she retorted, “and I hate what I am, I hate it!”

  “There are men who’d want you.”

  She made a sound of contempt. “Not good men. It doesn’t matter, even if no man wants me, one of these days I’ll be free.”

  “Maybe you will.” Thoughts raced through my mind. It was too early to consider taking Kyar as a concubine. Months of campaigning loomed ahead of us, and no one knew how far the army would advance before constructing another permanent base. And what would my mother think about my taking a woman? After all, if I gained admission to the Equestrian Order, she would expect me to take a proper Iberian, or better yet, a Roman wife. And, as custom dictated, she would arrange the marriage. Because it was illegal, a slave wife would be out of the question. My father, had he been alive, would have understood my situation. Many knights kept mistresses. I could buy any woman I wanted, that was my right. As heir to the family fortune, Mother did not have the power to disinherit me. And no man can wait forever to keep a woman. Nonetheless, I preferred Mother’s approval.

  “Your mind is wandering again, Marcellus,” Kyar said, gently tapping the bridge of my nose.

  “Sorry, but when I’m with you I feel I’m in another world.”

  “Oh?” she pretended offense. “I didn’t know I had such an effect on men.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I grinned. And Zeus doesn’t live on Mount Olympus either.

  Another minute passed. “You have to go,” Kyar said quietly. “Come back soon, will you?” She stroked my face tenderly. “You’re too good to me.”

  I dressed, kissed Kyar, and departed. I passed Mardonius, waiting just outside, her next customer. I suddenly felt compelled to strike, although I settled for an accidental bumping. He cocked his right arm and balled his hand into a huge fist. For a moment, I thought he was going to throw a punch. I stared into his blue-gray eyes, daring him to make the next move.