Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  ‘She was standing next to me in there,’ said Brighid. ‘Poor lady.’

  The dark eyes flickered open, blinking away tears of shame. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what came over me. The heat.?’

  ‘Hush, lady,’ said Tullus. ‘It’s the change of temperature. You won’t be the only one today. Take a sip of this water, if you will.’

  She sipped, gratefully, while they studied her face, no longer covered by the green linen or in shadow. It was a sad, lovely, gracious countenance with shades of unhappiness below her eyes, her pale skin beginning to show lines around the full mouth. Clearly she was still a very lovely woman, the thick dark brown hair delicately silvered.

  Math came trotting back to them. ‘Yes,’ he called, ‘there’s the lady’s litter waiting just outside the gateway. Domina Helena Coronis is the name.’

  ‘Did it occur to you not to shout it across the precinct?’ said Tullus, glaring at him. ‘Could you tell me, quietly, where the lady lives?’

  ‘Watercombe, sir,’ said Math, trying not to catch his sister’s eye. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I were to follow on behind, just to make sure she gets there safely.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said the lady. ‘It’s not far. Only a mile or so. I’m quite recovered, I thank you. Really, yes, I’m perfectly well now.’

  Brighid stared at Math, then at the pale green lady who had suddenly become all important to her. She could not let her go without making some more permanent contact. This was exactly what she’d been waiting for. A woman from this place called Watercombe who was bound to know Helm. Her prayers answered so soon.

  But Tullus, a stickler for the courtesies, took the lady at her word and, as deaf to Brighid’s attempts as to her brother’s offers, simply picked her up in his arms and, with a command to the other three not to move a foot, carried her out to the waiting litter, returning with an air of one whose good turn for the day was complete. It took all Brighid’s control, during Tullus’s very brief absence, not to round on her brother with a torrent of questions in their own tongue that would elicit some real information for a change. To make and then lose such a contact was almost unbearable, but with Flavian standing by, there was nothing to be done except to fume in impotent silence and to hope for another chance, perhaps tomorrow.

  Her thoughts remained in utter confusion throughout the day, not the best of conditions in which to explore the convoluted bath complex and the facilities of which she could not take advantage during her courses. Fate seemed determined to thwart her. Having worked up an appetite, they sat on a stone bench in one of the squares and snacked on roast chestnuts, chicken wings and warm cheese-bread bought from one of the many vendors, and Brighid did her best to be amicable, knowing that Tullus would rather have been elsewhere.

  As it happened, Tullus had more than a passing interest in the extremely complicated system of water-pools and channels that diverted the water beneath the floors. Rome, he thought, must have employed some very fine water-engineers to have built such a place as this over what had once been a muddy hole in the ground.

  Brighid had been more interested to see how many sellers lined the precincts, peddling everything a visitor could need in the form of jewellery, charms and amulets for offering to the sacred spring, coins and tablets of lead inscribed on the spot with an appropriate message, curses written backwards. There were shallow pewter and silver dishes for libations at the altars, small bronze figurines of gods and goddesses, gemstones of every hue. Most fascinating was the man who sold a range of metal votive offerings designed to the buyer’s own specifications, tiny legs and feet, an ear or a finger, a breast, a head in silver or pewter according to one’s injury and pocket. The perfume-seller’s stall was like a hive of bees, buzzing with excitement, reeking of scent and twinkling with coloured glass, and Brighid would have spent some more of the Tribune’s money if her thoughts had not been elsewhere.

  They came to the market where, for a short time, she tried to forget the appendage of three hovering males amongst the colourful fabrics, leathers and wools. She bought several more robe-lengths of fine linen with embroidered borders, skeins of threads for sewing, nets for her hair, two more pairs of leather sandals, a length of wool for a cloak and a leather bag large enough to take her belongings. She would be prepared, when the time came for her to go, and she would be dressed to impress.

  Tullus had not achieved anything like her success, having intended while she was in the baths to enquire about a change of apartment, not thinking that she would be giving that pleasure a miss. It looked as if they would have to suffer another noisy night. But Brighid’s mind was still overwhelmed by what she had seen and by the names Helena Coronis and Watercombe. If only she had been able to talk with the lady in private.

  Back in their rooms, to which Quintus had not yet returned, her immediate need was for the newly acquired luxuries of soap, hot water and clean linen clothing next to her skin. Instructing the guards to allow no one to enter, she washed herself from top to toe and was pleased to discover that her courses had all but ceased. If escape really was as imminent as she hoped, then her personal timetable was in her favour.

  Dried, and still glowing from her ablutions, she took her lengths of linen to the window, flinging them over herself to judge the effect of the new bright colours against her skin, gathering them to see how they draped and finding that one piece had a pulled thread, which must be eased back into place. Her head was bent upon the niggling task when the door opened. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘I told you.!’ Too late.

  ‘Yes,’ said Quintus, ‘so I heard. May I come in, Princess?’ He was already closing the door behind him, taking in the scene of her naked back with a long trail of linen held in her arms. The light fell upon her tumbled hair as it had done at their first encounter, and this was how he would like to have seen her then, angry still, but naked. The graceful swell of her hips, her long smooth thighs, the soft peach of her skin against the gold ornaments and swathes of coloured linen lent her the image of a pagan goddess, wild and fiery, indignant at being interrupted, but fearful for the vulnerability of her position.

  ‘No,’ she said, hitching the bundle further up. ‘Can you not wait, sir?’

  His face reflected his thoughts like a mirror as he strolled towards her. His day had been long and irritating, and this was not the greeting he would have liked, though he might have expected it. ‘I think I’ve been remarkably patient to wait as long as this, woman. Don’t you? By now, most slave owners would have found out more about what they’d bought.’

  ‘You did not buy me. No … keep away! You may not.’

  ‘All right, you were a gift, but no less mine. What have you been doing all day? What did you purchase? Is this some of it?’ He took the bundle from her and held it up, removing the shield she’d tried to hide behind. ‘Mmm, a good choice of colour.’

  Teasingly, he left her no way to evade him, and now there was only the cool outdoor scent of him between them and the slightest touch of his white linen toga upon her breasts.

  ‘You may not see me like this, Tribune,’ she scolded, placing her hands over herself, feeling the responses of her body betray the words as soon as they were said. He had already seen her like this, but that did not give him permission to do so again.

  But he took her wrists and eased them away, upwards, until they were pressed against the wall above her head and held there as his lips found hers, drinking deeply like a man parched with thirst. Their breath mingled sweetly as an ache of emptiness filled her lungs. In her excitement at the longed-for fruition of her plans, she had tried to push her newest physical experiences to the back of her mind as a distraction she could not afford. Yet her body would not co-operate, flaring like dry tinder under his first touch, trembling for more, all thoughts of escaping converting instantly to shameless surrender. And when his free hand slid over her hip and thigh and on like a shadow to the space between her legs, she waited too long to savour the breathtaking flare of
excitement before gasping a protest against his kisses.

  ‘No … oh, no, my lord … not… . not there! No, please!’

  ‘Your courses have finished,’ he whispered, keeping his hand in place.

  ‘I have not bathed. Tomorrow, perhaps. Give me more time.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I have more time to give, woman,’ he said, taking his hand away and releasing her with a groan. ‘Is that water still warm?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, angered by her own weakness.

  ‘Then wash me down before we dine. If I have no time to go and bathe, and I may not take my pleasure another way, then at least I can be ministered to. And if you intend to visit the baths tomorrow, then do it early. You’ll be coming with me to see a water engineer. Tullus will be interested and I’m not leaving you behind.’ He unwound himself as he talked, pulling his tunic over his head with a ripple of muscle and sinew, revealing himself to her with a casual indifference that seemed to imply how little he cared whether she was aroused or not, only that he had been prevented from enjoying himself.

  Brighid hurriedly donned her shift and set about washing him, fully aware that he could have done the job more efficiently himself and that this was just another way of making use of her while putting an end to her innocent diversion with her purchases. Not only that, but she felt he had it in mind to embarrass her with those parts of his body that had not yet recovered from their moment of lovemaking. Although the phenomenon was no surprise, she was more insulted than embarrassed, for he could not have forgotten that she was still a maid and that, until she had had the experience, the apparatus he was so proudly displaying was more like a threat than a delight.

  The longer she performed her task with very little contribution from him, the more angry she became at his sudden ungentlemanly change from caring bedmate to peeved slave owner. Politely inviting him to bend so that she could reach his neck, she felt behind her for the bucket of cold water left by the boy and, swinging it up above him, emptied the lot over his head and shoulders. ‘There, my lord,’ she growled, ‘that should cool things down a bit, I think.’

  His leap into the air would have done credit to an Olympic athlete as, with a bellow of shock, he turned his dripping body to face her in disbelief. ‘You … you little … barbarian!’ he gasped. ‘What was that for?’

  Like lightning, she had dropped the bucket and retreated, half-soaked, to the far side of the room, facing him like a tigress. ‘It was for you, you great surly brute!’ she yelled. ‘You’ve been asking for that for days. And if you have the gall to ask me to tend your blasted wound, you’d better beware, for I intend to cauterise it with a hot iron.’

  ‘Pass me a towel, you bad-tempered little minx.’

  He could not have known how accurately a Brigantian Princess, when angered, could throw. The bundled towel landed on his ear with a hard thwack, even before the words were out. ‘Please!’ she reminded him.

  ‘Mop this lot up, or it’ll leak through the ceiling,’ he commanded.

  ‘Mop it up yourself. It’s your bath, not mine.’

  He stared at her. ‘Little vixen! Do as I say.’

  ‘Go to Hades!’

  Padding wetly to the door, he yanked it open, roaring like a wounded bull for the two boys to come up immediately. They almost tumbled into the room, goggle-eyed at the spreading pool of water in which their master stood, the domina in her wet shift, the scattering of empty bowls. They were fourteen-year-old lads, not unintelligent and not without a normal sense of the ridiculous and, as they began the task of mopping up, their almost hysterical giggles grew out of control until tears began to fall down their rosy cheeks, accompanied by little moans. Such a thing had never happened to their master before. Yet as they mopped and squelched, snuffling and squeaking, their glances at the Tribune’s usually severe expression revealed that, every now and then as he rubbed his head with a towel, his shoulders heaved as the towel muffled a roar. Several times.

  The domina was folding up her pile of dress lengths and packing them into a large leather bag, punching them angrily, her damp shift clinging seductively to her knees. Quintus closed the door behind the two boys. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked, still laughing.

  Brighid did not look up. ‘For the market. I’m sending them back. I’ll get your money refunded. I can do without anything of yours, even your miserable gifts. I can get finer from my own people, and I can get more respect as a bath attendant, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t go, barbarian,’ he said, teasingly. ‘Who would put me in my place? Who would tend my wounds? Warm my bed? Grace my dining couch and ride—?’

  ‘Wash your feet and suffer your—’

  ‘Hush, lass. It’s over. Let it go,’ he said, scooping her up before she could dodge away. ‘I did not mean it to—’

  ‘Yes, you did! You know you did. I am a Princess, Roman, and I will not be treated like a whore for your pleasure after a day’s work. Find yourself a girl at the brothel down the street.’

  ‘Not while I have you,’ he whispered, rocking her in his arms. ‘I ought not to have tormented you. Now calm down, fierce woman, and wear one of your new purchases. I want to show you off tomorrow when we make our visit. Come now, lass. Forget your anger, will you?’

  ‘I don’t want to go visiting. I’m not interested in water engineering.’

  ‘He has a big garden with fountains, and his wife runs a healing centre. I thought you’d like to see that.’

  ‘I’ve travelled enough.’ A healing centre?

  ‘It’s not far, only a mile or so. A place they call Watercombe because of all the springs there.’

  She held her breath. There it was again. Watercombe, where she might at last find the man who could rescue her. They knew of him there. It was a miracle. And the woman Helena Coronis would be there too. Thank you, Brigantia. ‘I’ll come,’ she whispered, ‘because I do not want to stay in this place alone.’

  Gently, he kissed her forehead. ‘Good. Now put something decent on and let’s go down to dinner. I’m starving and I can smell something good.’

  But why, she thought, if the lady from Watercombe runs a healing centre, did she need to seek help from the sacred spring of Sulis-Minerva?

  Chapter Eight

  After heavy rain during the night, the countryside was awash with tumbling streams, bright sparkling greenery and blinding sun bouncing off limewashed walls. This was Aprilus in its very best garb, dressed to celebrate their short journey to Watercombe, a villa built on a wooded hillside over natural springs.

  The dark sense of dread had visited Brighid again that night, completely at odds with her exhilaration at finding Watercombe so easily with no effort on her part. She had actually managed to feign reluctance, though she had taken great care with her dress and hair, which she knew the Tribune would believe was for him instead of for a certain one of Watercombe’s many guests. If Helm was not there, she would have to make an excuse for another visit.

  She had gone to the baths early that morning, taking advantage of all the facilities on offer, a full massage, a hair wash, scented oils and skin toners, pedicure and manicure and another visit to the shrine to see if there was a sign of the Lady Helena. She had even asked if anyone knew of her but, until she mentioned the name to the man who sold the limb-shaped offerings, no one could help. He, however, had looked up and smiled. ‘These are made at Watercombe,’ he told her, ‘at the Lady Helena’s healing centre. I make them myself.’ There had been no more time to explain, for Tullus approached at that moment and she had no wish for him to know of her particular interest in the place.

  Now, approaching Watercombe from the valley below, the size of the villa was revealed as being much greater than any of them supposed, a sprawling complex of white-walled buildings nestling into the hillside, its red-tiled rooftops shining pink in the sun, its gardens terraced into the slope where white-robed guests strolled and sat beside shimmering pools of blue water. On the approach, other visitors rode or toiled on
foot up the hill, splashing through limey puddles and labouring under the weight of disease and old age. The Tribune’s party, on the other hand, had no such problem for yesterday Quintus had only to mention his reasons for visiting Aquae Sulis in the same breath as their less-than-comfortable lodgings to be told by the men at the tax office that he could easily solve both issues at Watercombe. Why not go and pay a visit? When they had mentioned that the owner was also the brilliant hydraulics engineer who serviced the water systems at the baths in town, as well as designing others in the area, Quintus knew that Tullus would certainly wish to see the villa as soon as possible. If the Princess had not taken so long making herself ready, Tullus would have set off an hour earlier, having also heard that the villa was a show place for garden-lovers as well as a cult centre for pilgrims.

  The track led them round to one side of the villa past a series of bath-houses attached to a two-storey block set across the end of the atrium. Here they were welcomed. Either, Brighid thought, the steward welcomed everyone with the same warmth or, more likely, that their arrival had been seen from a distance. They were, after all, a well-presented bunch with four slaves in attendance, if one counted Math as one, the horses alone advertising a certain affluence. The steward’s quick eyes took them in at one glance, his deferential bow just the right depth to avoid servility.

  ‘Welcome, my lords,’ he said, having noted Quintus’s purple bands. ‘Welcome to Watercombe. And to my lady also. Is this your first visit?’ His eyes shifted back uncertainly to Quintus as if he was not quite sure of the lady’s status.

  ‘Quintus Tiberius Martial,’ said he. ‘Tribune. Yes, this is our first visit to Watercombe.’ As if you didn’t already know that, he thought.

  ‘My lord,’ said the steward again, adding an extra head bow for good measure, ‘we are honoured.’ Without looking, he snapped his fingers into the air to summon a slave. ‘Ask the Lady Helena if she will be pleased to come to the atrium. We have some distinguished guests she will wish to greet personally. Hurry, lad!’ He turned back to Quintus. ‘If you would come this way sir, we can speak in more comfort. Your horses will be taken to the stables. You need have no fears for their welfare. A handsome mare you have, my lady.’