Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  So it was hardly surprising that Brighid had been raised on a diet of deep distrust and contempt for all things Roman, while secretly harbouring a curiosity to know more about how their shockingly indulgent standards of living differed from her own. It would have been strange indeed for her to show no interest at all, or even to agree entirely with her parent’s bigotry when she had never been allowed to stray more than two miles from home. The town of Eboracum might as well have been Rome itself, for all she knew. Yet her father’s loud-spoken dislike of the Roman system was too potent not to have left some impression on her. For one thing, she was a princess and therefore near the top of the tribal pecking order, and it was hardly possible in so short a time for her to shed the natural superiority acquired over her twenty-two years.

  Some of the luxuries at the Lindum accommodation, however, had given Brighid a taste of what she’d been missing, the luxury of spotlessly clean floors and painted walls, delicate colours and decoration, the tiled bath with warmed flooring and water, feather beds and clean sheets, the drapes of linen she and everyone else wore for everyday use. Defensively, she reminded herself of the comforts she had left behind in the wide heather-covered hills of home, of the fabulous bronze weapons, the jewellery of gold and enamel, the cunningly wrought cups for beer and mead. There were priceless furs, weaving, dyeing and embroidery, the frequent visits of foreign merchants bearing exotic amber, pearls and coloured glass, hunting birds from the north, spices from the east. They had taken back hunting dogs, metal, corn and slaves and, but for her father’s bullying severity, life might have been tolerable for her. Less so for Math.

  The nearer they drew to the next overnight stop the deeper became the gulf between Brighid’s conflicting memories of home and the inviting new world of gracious living where even the modest suburbs sprouted smooth-walled red-tiled houses amongst the older timber and thatch. Colourful robes marked out a predominance of wealthy citizens with slaves in attendance, and metal-clad Roman soldiers with brawny legs saluted the Tribune and his entourage as they passed, their anonymous eyes lingering upon Brighid and her high-stepping mare that must have cost a fortune.

  On the furthest outskirts of the market town, a large villa spread out like a white crust upon a green-patterned cloth, trim round the edges and large enough to have housed a dozen families rather than the one wealthy farmer, his wife and daughter who came out to greet them. A messenger had been sent on ahead. They were expected. To Brighid, this was opulence on a scale that made her wonder, as they dismounted, whether her father had known of this kind of wealth and, if he did, whether his disapproval of Romans in general was based on envy or true patriotism. As it happened, the host and hostess, like their ancestors, were as British as him, the difference being their method of survival in a changing world.

  It took only one glance for her to see that this villa was of quite a different order, both in scale and grandeur, from the retired commander’s home at Lindum, for here the buildings were designed for comfort on three sides of a large garden with colonades, balconies and steps leading to other levels. Even more significant was the smiling welcome of their hosts who appeared to understand Brighid’s status without any embarrassment, even when the Tribune introduced her as his personal healer. It was, Brighid thought, an ambiguous appellation if ever there was one, which the Lady Sylvana and her husband Cerealis took in their stride without batting an eyelid, the same of which could not be said of Tullus and Lucan, though they had enough discretion not to show their surprise.

  The Lady Sylvana was glamorously middle-aged with a stunning pile of dark hair arranged in tiers of tight curls that had obviously taken an age to fix. Sparkling with gold, she waved red-tipped fingers and pointed red-tipped toes in flimsy studded sandals not made for mileage, whereupon Brighid hid her own red hands in the folds of her gown, hoping they’d not be noticed. The room she was to share with the Tribune, no questions asked, was more tastefully furnished than any she’d seen so far with the kind of reflective freshness quite new to her after the rough interior of a roundhouse. Yet she felt surprisingly at ease in this light clean environment as if this new phase in her life had been waiting only for the right moment to present itself. Caution and northern-bred common sense told her not to get used to it, for she must not imagine that her so-called position as the Tribune’s ‘personal healer’ would guarantee her safety.

  After the Tribune had bathed in the private bathhouse and Florian had spent the usual time anointing the magnificent body, Brighid set about applying another dressing to the knee, whence arose an argument about whether Brighid would dine with him or not. If it had been her decision, she would rather have eaten alone.

  ‘It’s not your decision, but the Lady Sylvana’s,’ said Quintus, watching the bandage pass over and under his joint. ‘She has asked for you to be there and I want you to be there, too.’

  ‘There are good reasons why I cannot,’ she said, crossly. ‘For one thing, I am not used to your kind of dining. I don’t eat lying down.’

  ‘Is that all? It’s not difficult. You’ll be with me and I’ll help you.’

  ‘Another thing, I’ve not had chance to bathe. And I’ve nothing suitable to wear … and … Oh, never mind. You’d not understand.’ Tying off the ends of the linen, she tucked them in and stood upright.

  Before she could see it coming, he had lowered one leg to the floor and pulled her to him, clamping her hard to his chest and pushing her head on to his shoulder with his face only a breath away from hers. Any nearer, and her eyes would have closed. ‘Like it or not, Princess,’ he whispered, ‘you must leave the barbarian behind and with each mile become used to a different way of life, everything except the title, which is a useful device, no more. Start now while there’s still time, if you wish to convince me that you can be of some use.’

  ‘So is the title of personal healer a promotion, my lord Tribune? Or am I still to pretend to be your woman? You must keep me up to date, you know.’

  ‘Sharp-tongued little viper. I think our hosts can work it out for themselves. And as for your not having anything to wear, women never do. It’s a fact of life.’

  She turned her face into his chest. ‘There’s more to it than that,’ she said.

  ‘I know that, too. You’ve caught sight of the glamour, haven’t you? And you’re making unnecessary comparisons. There’s no need. Allow Florian to dress your hair, find the blue-green tunic, and you’ll not need red-painted nails. She would kill for eyes like yours.’

  Of all the things he might have said to reassure her, all the trite compliments men sometimes produce when they’re trying too hard, nothing could have given her more confidence than to know she had something another woman would kill for. Especially a woman like the Lady Sylvana.

  She peeped up at him to find the sincerity of his words, but his lips found her first, sending to oblivion the confused emotions, the jumble of losses and gains, hopes and fears that had dogged her, hour upon hour. She warned herself that she must not allow his lovemaking to become the answer to her problems, that she must seek her own salvation, somehow. But when his hand sought her breast, touching the scantily clad peak in passing, covering the round full softness while his mouth played upon hers, she knew in her heart that her plans were shifting like treacherous sands and that her intended use of him came a distant second to his use of her. In her attempts to convince him of her value, she had begun to convince herself of the need for change. Yes, she would have to do as the Romans do and be thankful her father would never get to hear of it.

  In another way, she was later to give thanks that he would never see the villa’s décor where pattern covered every surface, even ceilings and floors. Underfoot, bizarre mosaics of questionable artistry depicted nude actresses and mermaids, men fighting bulls and spotted leopards in chains, the gladiatorial theme rather at odds with their genteel hosts. But it was the couple’s daughter, a girl of about seventeen summers, who reminded Brighid how often families breed children who refu
se to fit the prescribed mould, and if Math could be a disappointment to his father, then so could young Flavia be to her mother.

  While Brighid had taken an extra hour to reach her hostess’s sartorial standards, the daughter’s efforts resulted in a kind of austerity that was meant to be read as non-conformist and sexless. For such a lovely girl, it could not have been easy, but somehow she managed it. Nevertheless, she found much to interest her in her parents’ guests, particularly Brighid with her fascinating combination of Britishness and Roman accentuated by the priceless ornaments. It was a look the girl’s mother could never have achieved.

  Flavia was spoilt and brash, leaving none of the guests in any doubt about the direction of her life, being intent on a career as a gladiatrix which, although frowned upon by the Emperor Severus, was still undertaken with dedication by a few high-born women who preferred danger and adulation to a life of martyred motherhood. The short-haired gangly-framed young woman astonished them with the revelation that it was her boyfriend, a Londinium-based gladiator, who had first taken her, unknown to her parents, to the local stadium to see the show. Naturally, they had done their utmost to persuade her from her course, but she was their only child and, using that as an excuse, had been unable to deny her what she had no intention of denying herself. Astonishingly, her father—shamefacedly admitting it was so—had built a covered arena in which she could practise with paid teachers in the belief that, since she was determined to take her life into her own hands, she had better do it in style. Her father, Flavia told them proudly, said she was good. Her boyfriend had said the same.

  Reclining next to Quintus, Brighid saw him remove a date-stone carefully from between his lips and place it on the edge of his plate while his stockinged foot touched hers and drew away again.

  Flavia’s interest in Brighid extended further than her appearance and multiple skills to that of practice opponent. She was convinced the Brigantian Princess would have some fighting skills, whether with sword or spear. Didn’t she?

  Politely, her parents protested and begged the guests to excuse her enthusiasm. But Brighid had the means to extricate herself without giving offence, and it was only later in the privacy of their room that she and Quintus were able to share their thoughts about being used as target practice for a would-be gladiatrix. Not only had the young lady suggested it in all seriousness to Brighid, but to Quintus, Tullus and Lucan, too.

  ‘As your personal healer,’ said Brighid, ‘I had to forbid it.’

  Quintus yawned, noisily. ‘Oh dear. I was quite looking forward to it. But perhaps it’s as well. I should not have known which bit to shorten first, her tongue or her silly ambition. Her father should take a strap to her.’

  ‘And that would fix everything, would it?’ said Brighid, saucily. ‘How much did you learn about children, my lord, on your way up?’

  ‘Enough to know that, if a lass chooses to act out a lad’s games, she should be treated like a lad,’ he said, unreasonably.

  ‘It seems to me, sir, that that’s exactly what they are doing, as far as they can. In all other respects, she appears to be a perfectly normal woman.’

  ‘What … fighting? Where does that come in, for a woman?’

  ‘It comes in at about thirteen summers,’ Brighid said, letting her hair fall over her shoulders, ‘and lasts for a few more. I remember it well. Rebellion. A wish to steer my own course. Antipathy to rules. Physical urges. Conflicting images of what I was. Wanting the kind of respect and recognition that doesn’t come from merely being born female. If it’s a passing phase, she’ll grow out of it. If it’s permanent, she’ll at least have lived a shorter life by her own choosing, won’t she? That has to be worth something.’

  ‘Not to her parents, it doesn’t.’

  ‘She’s a woman, Tribune. Her parents are trying to guide, not to dominate, and she has strong opinions. Is it such a bad thing that she’ll find her way with them, rather than without them? I agree that what she’s planning is outside society, and dangerous, but in the future she won’t be able to look back and say her parents pushed her into something against her wishes. Tyranny is one name for that kind of over-protection, and that young lady …’ she panted, waving an arm at the door ‘… will be better prepared for life than I was at seventeen. She envied me for what she thought she saw, my lord, but if she’d only known the truth, she’d … she …’ Her voice faltered and choked as emotions became tangled with the words.

  ‘She’d what?’ His arms enclosed her, his lips against the loose hair on her temple. ‘Think differently? I doubt it, lass. There’s not a lot of thinking goes on in that head except what she wants, and life is not about what one wants at the expense of others. You know that. She has not given a single thought to her parents’ wishes. You’re angry because she has a kind of freedom you’d have liked, but there’s a middle way, you know, between keeping a precious daughter safe and letting her off the rein too soon. They’ve allowed her to bolt straight into the most dangerous place on earth.’

  His lips moved down her face, breathing in her warm scent while she struggled against the tiredness and fear of the unknown, the result, she told herself, of being plunged without preparation into a new and frightening kind of relationship ‘Is this,’ he whispered, ‘your father’s tyranny we’re talking about?’

  She nodded, knuckling a tear away. ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘Well then, now you’re free of it for a while, aren’t you?’

  ‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire, my lord.’

  Instead of a direct denial, he swung her up into his arms and carried her across the lamplit room where shadows chased and bent across the soft blankets, the white-covered mattress and downy pillows. ‘That remains to be seen,’ he said, lying over her. ‘I am not a tyrannical master, Princess, but I have to admit that your safety has become a priority with me too. Who in his right mind would not wish to keep hold of such a rare possession? Wise as well as beautiful. Fierce, clever, cultured, desirable. You reveal more of yourself each day. And you were brilliant this evening, as if you’d dined like that all your life. I was proud to have you beside me, though little did I expect I’d need your protection from a sword-wielding virago.’

  ‘And my reward, Tribune? Another day not being sold to a slave dealer?’

  ‘Is that what you wish, Princess? To stay with me?’

  ‘As far as Aquae Sulis. Then I think you should free me to find my own future.’

  ‘I’ll take you there, but I shall not free you, lass.’

  Indispensable? Brigantia, beloved goddess, did I not say? Indispensable as far as Aquae Sulis, no further than that. ‘Why not? You have no—’

  ‘Shh! Because I’m growing used to you in my bed and by my side in the daytime. My wound is healing, and last night we slept apart, so now we have some catching up to do.’ Tenderly, he pushed a lock of hair from her face, letting his hand travel down over her body with all the authority of an owner examining his property.

  She caught it as it slid between her thighs beneath the soft stuff of her gown, turning her head to avoid his questing mouth. ‘Yes, no doubt, Tribune. But I am still a maid, if you recall, and I would rather be allowed to choose when and where to relinquish that state, and to whom. If you are not a tyrannical master, I think you should prove it by letting me give freely what is mine to give.’

  ‘Ah, here we are again treading this fine line between who owns what. If I were to argue the point, I’d say that, as things stand at the moment, what is yours is mine. Still,’ he said, nudging her face back to his with his knuckles, ‘I think I might be allowed a little tyranny before we sleep, eh? If I’m careful not to overstep the line?’

  ‘May I not first prepare your medication, Tribune? It will help the wound to heal while you sleep.’

  ‘Can I trust you, Princess?’ he whispered against her skin.

  ‘Come and watch. I do nothing in secret.’ Taking his hand, she rolled away and drew him with her to the table where the pots
and packets lay as Florian had left them, confident that whatever she added to the Tribune’s drink would not be recognised by him for its properties. So when she laced the usual draught with a pinch of this and a speck of that, to improve the taste, he drank it down without question and returned to the couch, yawning again, to watch her finish undressing. Intentionally, she took her time, encouraged by the example of young Flavia, whose experience in getting her own way was streets ahead of hers, and while the Tribune’s breathing settled into the regular rhythm of sleep, his eyes had closed long before she had finished combing her hair.

  Several times during the night he turned to gather her close to him as if to continue some dream-like lovemaking. But the deep breathing resumed and the intended tyranny remained like a half-smile upon his face until dawn, by which time Brighid was making use of the women’s time in the bath-house.

  Stroking his stallion’s velvet-pink muzzle, Quintus used the arched grey neck as a screen behind which to speak in subdued tones to his two friends before they mounted. ‘Just keep an eye on the new lad, Florian’s friend,’ he said. ‘I don’t think his presence is as accidental as he wants us to believe.’

  ‘Uh-uh!’ Tullus grunted. ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, he understood the Princess’s instructions in her own tongue. It was a brief exchange, but there was no doubting it. And for another thing, he appears to know rather more about how Brigantes live than you’d expect from an ordinary York man. He claims to be a Roman citizen, his father a scriptor with a nice line in signwriting, but there’s something odd about his knowing so much about how the chieftain was killed. I cannot help wondering if he’s passed that on to the Princess. She seems to be thinking rather a lot about her father’s influence at the moment.’