Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  ‘Is that why he’s so short-tempered?’

  Math’s hand reached out to caress her cheek. ‘Our father did guard you close, didn’t he, love? There’s nothing quite like a constant nagging pain and no sex to keep a man on the boil, you know. And with you in his arms all night, I should think he’s about to explode.’

  Math’s smile made her blush. ‘But I thought that was because I begged him not to, and because he intends to sell me, eventually. The slave merchants offer high prices for—’

  ‘And you think a tribune of equine rank bothers about things like that? He’s wealthy, Bridie. The slave merchants have nothing to do with it. Now if you were to apply some of your healing to his knee, you’d make him a very happy man. I should think he’d be glad of something to ease the pain, now and then.’

  ‘I don’t particularly want to make him a happy man, Math. I’m more inclined to injure his other knee.’

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t swallow that rubbish,’ he said. ‘I think we’re both becoming more Romanised than our late unlamented father would have liked. And I’d lay any wager that your nights in the Tribune’s bed are not as uncomfortable as all that. So how do you feel about trying to get home? Shall we? Or shall we wait?’

  The offer of an alternative suggested to Brighid that Math had his own reasons for wanting to stay on course, as she did. ‘Before I knew you were here,’ she said, ‘I decided to go all the way, if the Tribune would allow it. It’s Helm’s country down there, you know. Do you have news of him?’

  ‘Only that he’s headed for home. You’re expecting he’ll still be interested, are you? I’d have thought you could do better than that. I’m still sure you can.’

  ‘I know you never liked him much, but they’re a wealthy tribe, Math.’

  ‘And more Romanised than us. You’d fit in well and he knows that. But you now have more choice, Bridie. With Father gone and our brother in charge, things will be more bearable at home. On the other hand, you could try to find young Helm and take your chances there, but he’ll be getting you for nothing, won’t he? I doubt he liked the sound of Father’s bride-price for you. Perhaps that’s why he left so soon.’

  ‘Then what are we to do, Brother? The Tribune may not try too hard to find me if I were to disappear. He’s promised to get rid of me, sooner or later.’

  ‘You want to leave? It’s quite a risk. And you couldn’t foot it across the countryside looking like that. Where are your clothes?’

  ‘In the chest underneath you. It’s always locked. Always guarded, too.’

  Math stood up. ‘I’d better go. They’re starting to move. We’ll talk later.’

  ‘Be careful, love. Florian is utterly loyal to the Tribune, remember.’

  But when Math had disappeared, Quintus arrived to take her outside. ‘You’ll ride behind Tullus for a while,’ he said. ‘But let me give you a word of warning, Princess.’ He hooked an arm around her waist and drew her into his hard chest as if he wanted her to feel every hidden contour under his tunic. ‘Don’t be making any plans to flee with that new lad. You’ll go when I’m ready, and not before.’

  ‘I have made no plans,’ she said, fiercely.

  ‘Then what was that long talk about just now? You hardly know him.’

  ‘I asked if he had any news of the Brigantes, that’s all.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘He’s a gentle young man, like Florian, and lonely. We talked about how comfortable he feels in company with your people. I like him.’

  His arm tightened. ‘Yes, and they’re all chosen for their loyalty to me. He’d better not be an exception.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’

  ‘You will always be an exception, woman. But don’t start plotting. I have not finished with you yet. Understand?’

  It would not have mattered what reply she intended, for his kiss bent her in his arms, robbing her of both words and resistance, and when she clung to him, she was oblivious to the way one of her hands crept up to touch his soft falling hair. Not until the kiss ended did she realise where it had been.

  She drew back out of his arms, placing a hand to her burning lips, but he took her wrist and held it away, studying her downcast eyes without comment. ‘They’re waiting,’ he said, gruffly. ‘Come.’

  They pretended that nothing had happened, but both knew that it had. For in that tender gesture lay more than she had intended, and far more of herself than she’d wanted to reveal.

  Chapter Five

  The news of her father’s death and its implications gave Brighid so much to think about that Tullus soon stopped trying to make conversation for so little reward. Tribal fights were frequent and always fierce, but her father had seemed invincible. The Emperor, though, was a famous warrior renowned for his victories; this being the case, Brighid found it surprising, if not downright unlikely, that the information concerning the latest one would have been kept from the Tribune. She was sure he was keeping it from her, and now she would have to do the same or disclose the source of her information. Already he was suspecting her friendship with Math. Was he also suspecting Math himself? No, on reflection, perhaps not; her brother did not meet the image of a chieftain’s son. She decided to limit their meetings after this.

  One of her first decisions concerned her prayers to Brigantia, whether to invoke mercy for her father’s spirit or to give thanks for a deliverance she had never dared wish for. Her thoughts on the matter were as complex as the man himself, for in shielding her from the attentions of men, her father had apparently seen no paradox in exposing her to his own licentiousness both by day and night. His sons had disapproved of their father’s insatiable appetite, and Brighid knew many mothers who would now be sighing with relief that their young daughters were safe from his favours. How sad it was that her little maid had caught his eye, had conceived before her childhood was over and then been denied any compensation, after all that. No, Brighid decided, she could not mourn the death of such a man, whoever caused it.

  Accepting her lack of communication, Tullus was equally content when she asked him if there would be shops or market stalls at their next stop. ‘I believe so, Princess,’ he replied over his shoulder. ‘Is there something you need?’

  ‘If I could find a herb-seller, I could prepare something to ease the Tribune’s pain,’ she said. ‘I assume that must be the reason for his short temper.’

  Tullus’s grey eyes twinkled. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘But on the other hand, I would not be too surprised if he were to decline your offer. I believe the Tribune favours the professional healers at Aquae Sulis more than amateur medication.’

  ‘Yes, come to think of it, I would probably distrust me, too, if I were him. But there’s really no need, you know. Poultices are put on wounds, not swallowed, and, even if there was no improvement, he would not die from it. I’ve done it often enough to know what I’m doing.’

  Lucan joined in. ‘No harm in it. Perhaps we could put it to him,’ he said. ‘What kind of thing do you need, Princess? Mandrake root? Henbane?’

  ‘No, not belladonna either. Or opium. In fact, I need only a few things I can’t find out here on the wayside. See, there are nettles and marshmallow over there by that marshy ground, and elders, too, and willow. We’ve just passed a holly tree for its leaves and roots, and we already have a store of other ingredients: oatmeal, eggs, beeswax and wine, honey, lard and bread. Nothing poisonous there, sir.’

  If Tullus and Lucan were surprised that the captive wished to alleviate her captor’s pain, they were remarkably discreet about it, putting the proposition to their superior with an assurance that collecting herbs from the wayside would neither delay them nor constitute an escape risk. They would both undertake to guard her.

  So they entered the settlement at the end of a thirty-mile journey with a sackful of leaves, roots and bark, while Math was sent to purchase the powdered roots of willow and mallow, and a pot of sheep’s grease. It looked, he thought, as if his sister had decided n
ot to injure the Tribune’s other knee after all. Brighid herself had plenty of time to decide that it was in her best interests if she could somehow make herself as indispensable to the Tribune as Florian was. Known as Margidunum, the settlement was, apart from the usual cluster of houses and shops, a staging post on the main road with a large government hostel where Imperial officials and messengers could stay overnight. Private rooms opened on to balconies and columned arcades, in the centre of which was a paved courtyard with low-growing rosemary, lavender and houseleek, a stone statue of Mercury, the messenger-god, and white-robed men deep in conversation. Here was no venomous black-wigged hostess, but a friendly manager with a swarm of slaves at his heels to show the Tribune and his party to rooms on the ground floor while explaining to him the amenities, the baths, triclinium and exercise hall. And nocturnal company if he should require it, he added obsequiously.

  By this time, Brighid was growing more accustomed to the undisguised curiosity of others, for although she wore a plain gown and shawl for travelling, even that was more flattering to her figure than her tribal dress. She had not learnt yet to keep her eyes lowered, but nor did she return the stares as she had done before. People found her green eyes disconcertingly remote, her expression far from servile, and when it was whispered that she was a tribal princess, no one was sceptical. To them, she lacked the proper demeanour of a slave, yet she had been obliged to leave behind the woman she’d been at home, accustomed to commanding her own household and being attended to. There, she would never have needed to persuade anyone to let her treat their wounds; they would have been honoured to be tended by the chieftain’s own daughter. Amateur, indeed.

  Not so Quintus Tiberius Martial, even though he was clearly in great discomfort after the day’s ride in which his wound had chafed against the edge of his saddle. Throwing himself on to the couch as soon as the door closed, he beckoned a slave to remove his shoes.

  ‘Remove those breeches, too,’ Brighid told the lad. ‘I need to look at the leg.’

  ‘My leg is none of your business,’ Quintus snapped.

  ‘It is my business. If you die from blood poisoning, I shall be suspected, shan’t I? Stands to reason. Therefore, I shall treat it.’

  ‘Oh … do as she says,’ he growled. ‘But if you hurt it … ‘

  ‘It will hurt. You’ll have to bear it. Put it up on here.’

  With her reluctant patient laid out and his naked leg cushioned for her inspection, Brighid sat beside the ankles to take a long hard look at the inflamed wound, the edges of which oozed nastily. It was swollen, too, and had clearly not received the treatment it ought. ‘How long has it been like this?’ she said.

  ‘Since the Tribune received it some months ago, domina,’ Florian said. ‘It’s never properly healed.’

  Brighid touched the swelling. ‘There’s something in there,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t be,’ said Quintus. His eyes were closed and he was frowning. ‘It was a metal spear and a horse’s hoof, and the surgeon cleaned it up there and then.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Brighid, ‘if it was clean, it would heal and it isn’t doing. Florian, will you and Max help me prepare a poultice for the Tribune? I need to open it up and clean it, and remove whatever is causing this mess.’

  Math was familiar with his sister’s healing processes and knew what she needed; while she made an infusion of marshmallow leaves and powdered willow bark to ease the Tribune’s pain, the two lads pounded boiled nettle roots, lard and honey to make a plaster. Borrowing a bowl and pan from the kitchen, they boiled water over the charcoal brazier, tore linen into strips and tried not to wince as Brighid cleaned the surface of the wound with mint-infused water while bossily encouraging the patient to finish the dregs of his drink. ‘That’s the willow bark. Drink it up.’

  ‘Urgh!’

  ‘What children men are.’

  As if on cue, Tullus and Lucan entered, clearly fascinated by the predicted scene on which they’d just been placing bets.

  ‘Just in time,’ Brighid said. ‘You can hold him while I put this plaster on. He’s bound to make a fuss.’

  ‘I don’t need holding down,’ Quintus roared. ‘Just get on with it. Any more poking about and I shall walk out.’

  Ignoring the threat, Brighid nodded them into position, laying the cool linen on his wound with the pale greenish pulp next to it. The half-expected yelp did not come, but his two hands gripped the leg as if it might fall off.

  ‘Let go of your leg, if you please, or your hands will get bandaged in too. This will soothe it and, by morning, will have opened it up enough for me to get inside. Now don’t start being difficult again, please. You’ll have to give the baths a miss this time. The boys will wash you down.’ Soothingly, like a mother to a child, Brighid talked as she bound the wound and tied it, clearing away the bowls and linen with instructions to prepare a different poultice for the morrow.

  ‘I shall not need it,’ Quintus protested. ‘It won’t do any good.’

  ‘Do it,’ said Brighid as the two young men hesitated. ‘The Tribune will take a short nap before his dinner.’

  ‘The Tribune will do no such thing,’ he argued. Nevertheless, within minutes he was asleep and Brighid was in whispered discussion with Tullus and Lucan about having their meal brought to the room on trays. This was a side of their captive the men had not seen until now, and a side of Quintus that neither of them had expected to see. Well, not quite so soon, anyway.

  It was the delicious aroma of food that woke him to the sight of tables arranged with dishes of fish and stuffed poultry, vegetables and sauces, breads, cheeses and fruits, nuts, dates and ewers of wine. And as if by mutual consent, Brighid became the hostess, demonstrating her social skills down to the last Roman detail, thereby offering a comparison to her behaviour of the previous evening when she had been upset by the guests’ hostility.

  Heavy clouds brought an early darkness, and good wine brought a mellow conversation that eventually turned to Brighid’s family. What kind of a man was her father? Being careful to speak as if he still lived, she told them how one of his hopes was to marry her into the wealthier southern tribes for political purposes, his use of the assumed title ‘Princess’ for his daughter being a part of this inflated ambition. Although not a king, he thought of himself as a king’s equal in most things except birth. His sons were not named princes, however, for his intent was not to endow his offspring with more power than him but with marketability, and his sons could market themselves without his aid.

  But when Tullus quietly asked her about the little maid and her death, she saw no harm in telling them of the reasons for her tragic wish not to live any longer and of her own intention to find a shrine at Aquae Sulis at which to make an offering. ‘If I should get that far,’ she added. ‘It’s for the Tribune to decide.’

  ‘Your father has several wives?’ said Lucan, breaking an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Concubines, not wives. His tastes in women are very …’

  They waited politely for her to find the word, then Tullus purposely suggested the opposite. ‘Particular?’ he said. But by that time, Brighid had sensed that her revelations had begun to border on disloyalty and, instead of disagreeing, she reached for the silver ewer.

  ‘More wine?’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m more used to mead, but I find this loosens the tongue just as easily.’ To the three men, her silence on the subject of her father’s morals said more about her than any further details could have done.

  Outside, in the confines of the courtyard garden where Quintus strolled slowly between Tullus and Lucan, it soon became apparent to a trio of well-dressed slaves, employed by the hostel manager as escorts to lone guests, that here was some good company for the night. Like soft-footed decoys, they allowed themselves to be overtaken, then drawn into conversation with every hope of success, though none of them could have anticipated the watchful eye of Brighid. From the doorway of the room where the remains of the meal were being removed, she saw w
hat was about to happen as the Tribune’s arm became linked with that of one particularly voluptuous siren.

  She quickly padded across the plot to his side. ‘Time for your medication, Tribune,’ she said, briskly. With a flash of green, her haughty glance caught the eye of the woman, causing her to blink with astonishment.

  The hopeful escort bristled and moved closer to her prize. ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever heard a slave give orders to her master,’ she pouted, clinging to his arm.

  But Brighid’s eyes hardened to the green of malachite and she was ready with her reply, snapping like a turtle before Quintus could get a word in between them. ‘I am not the Tribune’s slave, I am his woman. Now take your arm out of his and allow him to decide for himself what he will do.’

  Without a murmur the woman did as she was told just as Quintus moved away from her side, touching Lucan on the shoulder in recognition of something between them that was causing the expression of pained amusement. Tullus seemed about to explode with suppressed laughter, but Quintus and Brighid moved away together without a word of excuse, regret or goodnight.

  As the door of the room closed behind them, Quintus detained her with a hold on her arm. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what was all that about, lass? Eh? You’re concerned that I might have had her in my bed, are you?’

  Brighid pulled her arm out of his grasp. ‘Not in the least, Tribune. Have them all three in your bed, if you wish, but wait until your knee has mended first. I’m not spending my precious time and effort trying to mend it if you’re going to undo it all again. And what would you have me do while you’re busy entertaining that whore? Wait outside, or sit and watch?’

  For a man with a bandaged knee, he moved surprisingly fast, catching her again before she could put any distance between them. ‘Oh, no!’ he said brusquely. ‘Come back here, fierce woman! We’ll answer that question when we get to it. Meanwhile, you’re going to have to make more effort to keep a civil tongue in your head, or you might be waiting in a more uncomfortable place than this with a price tag round your neck. And let that be the last time you tell anyone you’re not my slave.’