Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  She stood up to face him, lifting her hair for him to place it round her neck and to bring the broad edges together. ‘The rivet?’ he said, softly.

  She held it up for him to slip through the precise dovetails, aware of his fingers upon her skin. Quickly, she stepped back, almost losing her balance as the wagon jolted over a rut. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For these, too. Where are we?’

  Like a colossus, he braced himself against one of the wooden ribs. ‘Next stop will be a small place called Danum. I shall send Florian out to purchase some stuff to make you something after the Roman fashion, and, before you start to protest, let me remind you that you promised to adapt.’

  ‘I didn’t promise to apply for Roman citizenship, Tribune.’

  ‘You won’t be a Roman, will you, wearing Brigantia’s wealth round your neck and arms? How could anyone possibly mistake you for a Roman citizen, woman?’

  ‘So what’s wrong with my own clothes? Are we out to confuse everybody?’

  ‘Sit down before you fall over. Now listen. We shall be staying at the home of a retired legionary commander and his wife in Lindum, and I don’t intend to spend my evening explaining the presence of a wild red-headed Brigantian captive in my baggage when they know I’m on my way to a health spa for treatment. It will save me much tedium if it’s simply known that I have a Brigantian princess with me whose appearance will cause no comment.’

  ‘Except, of course, that I am quite obviously the only female in your party and I wear my own adornments. You really believe that will cause no comment, do you?’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, taking a step towards the exit, ‘if you don’t like the sound of that, the solution is simple.’

  She knew what he meant. ‘No … stop … Tribune! Please. I didn’t mean to …’ Leaping to her feet, she staggered across the wobbling floor, intending to catch him before it was too late. ‘I will adapt. I will go along with you. Whatever it looks like.’

  He took an arm to steady her, steeling himself against the deep luminous green of her eyes that would have made any mortal man forget his own name. At that moment, she was the fierce tribal princess to whom he was suggesting a change of identity, which, naturally, she resented. ‘I’m not about to change who you are,’ he replied, hoping to convince her. ‘I doubt anyone could do that just by having you dress the Roman way. But I would rather our host and hostess regarded you as my woman than a barbarian captive I’m dragging along for some mysterious reason of my own. The choice is yours, Princess. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘As your woman? But I’m not… .’

  ‘Then pretend! Adapt. You told me you could do it.’

  The moss-green eyes blazed with fear, stirring him to a recklessness he’d intended never to show. But she needed to be convinced, an incentive to play the part, for he had nothing genuine with which to threaten her, and the safety he had promised her last night was already wearing thin. As if to hold her against the rocking of the wagon, he grasped her shoulders before she could tell danger from safety, pulling her hard against him with a groan of sudden desire. ‘Then this may help,’ he said, taking a handful of the red hair, tilting her face to his own.

  Brighid felt his kiss flood through her, melting her limbs, reaching her thighs. She ought to have fought him. But when it ended, instead of railing at him that a woman like her must not be treated in that manner, she stood silent, swaying to the wagon’s motion, her hand over her lips, watching him disappear in one leap through the canvas flaps.

  ‘Divine Brigantia,’ she whispered behind her fingers, ‘don’t let it happen to me, or I shall be worthless. I am promised, goddess. You know that I am.’ Even so, her body did not share in the same high-mindedness, for although the Tribune would probably think nothing of this kind of thing, she had been taken one step deeper into the forbidden dream that had haunted her throughout the night. It would be difficult enough for her to escape from captivity, but even more so to run from the bondage of her newest emotions.

  Unplaiting her hair, fingers and thoughts working furiously together, realising too late that she lacked a comb, she finger-raked it back into a bunch and fixed it on top of her head with her pins. But help was not far away, for the small town of Danum was only a few miles down the road and already bustling with market traders and all the chaos of early morning preparations. The clamour reached her as the wagon came to a standstill, bringing her to the tail-board where Florian’s black curly head was coming up to her level.

  ‘We’re stopping on the edge of a marketplace,’ he told her. ‘and I have to go and find you something to wear. I doubt if they’ll have much to offer, so no point in telling me what colour you want. I’ll have to take what I can get. What size sandals do I buy?’

  With resignation, she placed her foot on the edge of the tail-board. ‘There. Take a look. Buy whatever you like, Florian. Size, colour, shape, fabric—anything. But I need a comb. And the Tribune said I might have a small shrine. The small portable kind for travellers. Brigantia is the one to look for, though we may have passed out of the Brigantes territory by now, for all I know.’

  Florian’s eyes followed her as she turned away, his eyes showing some surprise. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, sympathetically. ‘Still not quite yourself, are you? Go and lie down a while, domina. I’ll do my best for you.’

  Florian did his best, and more, although it took him longer than the alloted time, for which he received the sharp end of his master’s tongue. Throwing his purchases up into the wagon even as it was moving off, he passed the last package more carefully into Brighid’s hands. ‘Careful with that. Hope it’s the right one. Too late to change it,’ he panted.

  She felt its weight and saw the bright metallic gleam before recognising the hand-high figurine of Brigantia, a helmet-wearing version symbolising her warrior-wisdom, a wise owl on one arm, a spear in the crook of the other. The goddess stood proudly inside an arched niche, her name inscribed in Roman capitals on the pedestal.

  ‘Polished pewter,’ said Florian. ‘And here are the scented candles to set at each side of her, and a garland of flowers I begged from the temple flower-girl.’ He took these from his black curls and passed them to her. ‘Sweet violet, borage and crocus. There. You can set her up wherever we are. Feel better now?’

  ‘You did well, Florian. Thank you. Much better. I’ll set her over here where she’ll not fall over.’ Her thanks were genuine. The solace of having her deity close at hand was something she had missed greatly since her capture as much as the loss of her family. Brighid had not had a mother since she was eleven, so it had always been to her goddess she had turned more than to the older village women who would have claimed an intimacy more for status than genuine fondness. Friendships and rivalries were thickly intertwined in her incestuous society, and to stay on the edge was often safer.

  Florian was setting out his other purchases for her inspection, delighting in each item as much as if they were for himself. He shook out lengths of linen much finer than anything Brighid had ever worn, soft, sumptuous, flowing rivers of fabric in white and cream, blue-green and palest madder-dyed pink. Draping them over her shoulders to judge them against her hair, he tilted his head to one side, then threw a heap of scarves over them to add sparkle, a deeper tone, a texture of fringes and tassels. ‘Do you know, domina,’ he said, ‘with that jewellery, this is going to look amazing. Quite unique. Nobody will be able to copy this look. Nobody.’

  At last, Brighid began to see what the Tribune had seen from the start. At her father’s insistence, she had adopted other aspects of the Roman life, the language and learning, but never the appearance. Not until now, when nothing of her woollen plaid showed under the shimmer of fine linen, had she realised what the effect would be. As Florian continued to ply her with ribbons and braids, goat-kid purses and pairs of soft openwork sandals, the Tribune himself climbed aboard to see how his denarii had been spent, making Brighid’s heart leap to see his admiration, quickly concealed, and to hear his restrained c
ompliment that she would surely raise a few eyebrows at Lindum.

  ‘Is that what you aim for, Tribune? To raise a few eyebrows?’ she asked, striking a graceful pose with arms full of cloth.

  ‘Yes, Princess. Why not? Better to be unique.’

  Florian agreed. ‘But that’s exactly what I said, sir. Unique.’

  Lazily, Quintus glanced at him without a smile. ‘Yes, my lad. And when you’ve finished in here, you can come and tell me what you’ve spent and how many extras you purchased while you were about it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Including that lad you brought back with you. He seems to think he’s a fixture. What’s he for, exactly?’

  Florian coloured up, his eyes darting over the fabrics. ‘He’s … er … for me, sir. He helped me to choose the domina’s shrine and explained to me which one was Brigantia. And then we found that … well … that we liked each other. Sir. He’s very well spoken. Travelling down to Aquae Sulis, like us. I didn’t think you’d mind.’ His expression seemed to turn inwards. ‘And I don’t like sharing my mattress with people I don’t like. And if you’re going to be with.’ He glanced at Brighid.

  ‘Enough! You’re a rascal, Florian. I ought to beat you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Give him something to do. I don’t want hangers-on in my party. He can stay as far as there and no further, so don’t get too attached to him. He’ll have to work his passage.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Now you and the Princess had better cobble something together before we reach Lindum. Use the green. Did you buy threads?’

  ‘I bought a workbox for the domina, sir. She has nothing.’

  ‘Hmmm! Right.’

  It appeared, after Quintus’s departure, that Florian’s purchases were rather more extensive than he had implied, for the workbox contained several extras for Brighid’s personal use: scissors and tweezers, hanks of threads and needles, two brass mirrors, one large and one small for her purse, combs of bone and ivory, a pair of coloured glass bottles with stoppers, a pot of lip salve, two horn spoons and a bone-handled knife, two pewter dishes and bowls, a silk cushion, and her own Samian-ware beaker with hares chasing round the sides. And a basket-woven stool with a lid, to keep things in.

  For her under- and over-gowns, no shaping was needed, each piece being little more than an oblong fastened together along shoulders and arms with small clasps, gathered into the waist with long ribbons that crossed over and under the breasts in a most seductive fashion. It being so different from her usual baggy shapeless garment, Brighid felt compelled to conceal various personal assets under the casual drape of a scarf. But Florian pulled it away, insisting that she need not be so coy when every fashionable matron would gladly show off what Brighid had, and more. ‘They bind themselves up,’ he said, admiring Brighid’s beautiful firm bosom, ‘to keep them from falling all over the place.’

  ‘Florian … please!’

  ‘It’s true. You go in and come out in all the right places. Why hide it?’

  The notion was not unfamiliar. There had been women in the village who hid very little, women taken noisily to her father’s bed by night and condemned by day for their whores’ tricks. Yet his daughter he had always kept close and safe from all censure. Here, well away from his influence, he could neither approve or disapprove of how she looked. Here, she could be a woman at last. Now, it would be what the Tribune wanted, and secretly what she wanted too. The admission shocked her.

  Taking the largest mirror of polished brass, which must have cost a good deal, she studied the transformation, the blue-green reflected in her eyes, the poised and shapely figure swathed in clinging folds, the gold-edged bands outlining her form, the fine white palla draped over her shoulder. ‘Good, Florian,’ she said, with a shy smile.

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘Except for the hair. That won’t do, will it?’

  ‘No. Sit over here by the light. We can soon fix it. Hold the mirror.’

  With the heaps of cast-off clothes, fabrics and accessories piled around her feet, she sat and watched how he combed her waist-length hair, taking two fine plaits away from her temples to join the rest which he pulled into a large thick braid twined with ribbons. His hands were deft, and it was obvious that the art of dressing a woman’s hair was well known to him, and soon the braid was being coiled and pinned on top of her head in a sleek bun that accentuated the length of her neck. More than ever, the exquisite structure of her face and head were revealed, adding another layer of refinement to what was already graceful.

  She knew without being told that, as a slave, she would not be dining with the Tribune or taking any part in the socialising. But from a distance she would be recognised as his woman, and she had agreed to play the part, whatever the cost to her pride. She would not shame herself by forgetting that she was a high-born Brigantian, for that was what he wanted her to be. A Princess. A prize worth having. Owned by him. Envied by others. Unique and rare. It was a compromise she never thought she might have to make when the man from the Dobunni had sought her for his wife only a few weeks ago.

  Once she was alone again and the clutter of dressmaking packed away, Brighid turned her attention to her shrine, devoting the next slow mile to the one whose grace she felt had been forfeited for too long. In this, she exaggerated the situation, for Brigantia’s attributes were not only great wisdom but also the gentle arts of healing, culture, poetry and all things domestic, and surely there was no goddess better placed to look with pity upon her subjects than this northern deity whose Roman counterpart was the esteemed Minerva. Brighid herself knew of this exalted connection, but in the hillfort beyond Eboracum, it had meant little to her. She had been born on her goddess’s feast day, Imbolc, the first day of February, when any kind of Roman connection had been too far away to contemplate. Then, the goddess had been offered prestigious sacrifices as thanks. Now, Brighid had nothing to offer except the flowers and her devotion.

  It seemed to be enough, for the peace that came with the goddess’s approval brought both tears and smiles to Brighid’s eyes as she blew out the candles for safety’s sake and then sat to consider her immediate future as well as possible uses for the tweezers. There was a limit to which this Romanising fiasco could go, she told herself, placing them at the bottom of her drawstring purse.

  As mile after mile of flat land and vast skies flowed sluggishly past, putting time and space between everything that was dear to her, Brighid regretted the loss of the high tors, the fells and ghylls, and the wild moorland that was her home. So she was surprised to find that, as the sun began to dip into an orange-and-purple horizon, the wagon was rumbling slowly uphill towards a sizeable town spreading over a spur set high above the plain. This, Florian told her, was Lindum.

  ‘You’ve been here before, have you?’

  ‘We came this way to York, domina. I expect we’ll be staying at the legate’s house again. He’s quite a harmless old thing.’ Legates were not known for being harmless; they were of senatorial rank and very powerful. Florian saw the blank expression and laughed. ‘We shall not see much of him or his wife, I don’t suppose,’ he said, kindly. ‘We’ll stay behind the scenes until we’re needed.’

  ‘Is Lindum like Eboracum?’ Brighid said, trying to push away the thought that she might be needed.

  ‘Not now. There used to be a legionary fortress here, but that’s gone. They’ve re-used the buildings for retired army officers, so now they sit over their dining tables, reminiscing about their battles and showing off their scars and appointing themselves as local governors. All veterans, the lot of them. Quite harmless unless you happen to own a bit of land they want to build a basilica or a bath house on. Then they’re not.’ There was a distinctly bitter tone to Florian’s profile of Lindum’s senior citizens that Brighid chose not to enquire into. She did not intend to stay longer than she must with either Florian or his master, so there was little point in being curious, she told herself. Most slaves harbou
red some resentments.

  Seated at the back of the wagon, she was herself an object of curiosity, at first from those following who were intrigued by the transformation, then by those they passed on the busy road into the town. Quintus was also fascinated by the elegant young woman whose combination of tribal and Roman was not only unusual but rather more sensational than even he had anticipated, and Brighid could hardly help but notice how he and his two friends rode immediately behind the guards where they could keep her in view as they passed under the great arch of the north gate. The Tribune had expressed no opinion of Florian’s handiwork, but both slaves had recognised in his eyes a lingering approval as every detail was noted, though his curt nod was the only tangible sign he gave.

  Florian had been accurate in his assessment of the elderly legate at whose mansion they arrived after a laborious jostle through the crowds. He had not, however, passed a similar opinion about the legate’s wife who, just as elderly as her husband, had striven for many hours to remove the years from her well-worn face and figure. Sadly, her attempts had not had the desired effect, worst of all being the elaborate black wig that sat too far down on her brow, the knots of which were clearly visible. Left alone, her age-wrinkles would have made a fascinating map of emotion and experience, but the Lady Aurelia’s decision to fill them in with lead-based powder made Brighid pity her and Florian to mutter under his breath that it looked as if she’d fallen into the flour bin again. It was beyond funny, Brighid thought, standing well back behind the Tribune’s two personal slaves, noting at the first glance how the lady’s eyes dwelt greedily upon his handsome face, caressing him with melting looks.

  ‘Welcome, Tribune,’ she said. ‘Restored to health, I see. You were far from well when we saw you last. The Emperor has looked after you. And Tullus and Lucan, welcome.’

  They went to stand in the atrium of the legate’s mansion, now expanded and made more beautiful with painted columns and a tiled floor. A fountain caught the late afternoon sun before sparkling into the green pool; it was the cool lure of water that held Brighid’s attention as Florian nudged her into awareness. ‘Follow,’ he whispered. ‘Keep up. And keep your eyes lowered.’