Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  ‘She is indeed,’ said Brighid, enjoying the special treatment alloted to knights and their ladies. It had been the same at home, although here the grandeur was of a different order, shining with tiles and limewash, mosaic floors and coloured walls, grass in tidy squares with trees like enlarged pine cones. In the atrium was a square pond with a central fountain, more powerful by far than the others she had seen, disappearing into the blue sky with a flash of sparkling light. Her father would have been amazed.

  Satisfied that the Tribune’s lady understood the language, the steward probed a little further. ‘You have come to seek the healing, or is this a social call? If it’s the former, I can send for our chief physician to attend you immediately.’

  The Lady Helena could not have been far away, her appearance making it unnecessary for Quintus to commit himself to anything more specific before he’d taken a look at what was on offer. The price would be academic, for nothing here would be cheap—even those pedestrian pilgrims would have saved up for years to get here. Their hostess’s face gave no sign of the previous day’s malaise, nor did she betray the slightest indication that she had already met four of the group in the temple. Apparently then, it looked as if she did not want the steward to know of her visit. As introductions were made, none of them gave her away by asking if she was recovered, for they could tell by her appearance that whatever had upset her had passed, her eyes clear and brown but with persistent dark shadows. Her smile was almost radiant, showing white even teeth rare in women of her years. ‘My lords,’ she said, ‘you are very welcome. Have you come far?’

  Slaves bearing trays had followed her into the atrium with silver flagons and delicate beakers of glass in pierced pewter holders. Wine and water were mixed and handed round, biscuits and dates to be nibbled, bowls of water placed with a pile of napkins for sticky fingers. Healing, apparently, began with food hygiene. They sat in basket-chairs to talk while Florian, Math and the two young lads stood aside, awaiting instructions, and Brighid noticed how the lady’s eyes avoided hers for most of the time while she spoke almost exclusively to the men. Avoided, that is, until Quintus told her that the Princess was his personal healer, at which her sudden recognition made Brighid want to laugh as the mental mistake was remedied in a gush of polite astonishment. It had been dark in the shrine and she had been weeping.

  ‘A healer. Really?’ said Helena Coronis, taking a longer and keener look at her beautifully groomed guest. ‘You are not from these parts then, Princess?’ Something in the way she spoke, the guarded look in her eyes and a certain stiffness—which might, of course, have been no more than a rheum in her neck joints—made Brighid wary of how much she herself gave away at this stage, remembering her unaccountable fears.

  ‘I am from the north, my lady, yet I discovered yesterday that my own deity is represented at the shrine of Sulis-Minerva, so I am well protected, you see.’

  What exactly Helena Coronis made of that was anyone’s guess, but she smiled graciously as if she was impressed by Brighid’s tact. ‘We must compare notes,’ she said, shifting her attention to Quintus. ‘Are you here to solve a specific problem, my lord, or for insurance against one?’

  Silently, he shared the joke with Brighid before he replied. ‘I have an old wound,’ he said, ‘which is now responding to treatment, but—’

  ‘But which would benefit from some water therapy,’ Brighid interrupted, severely, knowing how he would dismiss it as nothing, given the chance. She did not want him to dismiss it. Having got this far, she could use the Tribune’s wound as a reason to stay, giving her time to plan while providing them all with a change of lodgings. Two birds with one stone. ‘I was saying to you only this morning how much daily swimming would help, my lord.’

  Quintus swivelled his eyes towards her before his face caught up, and the slight pause before he agreed told her that he had understood her message. She wished to stay here. ‘Yes, I know. I had intended to swim daily in the public baths, but we are not satisfied with our apartment so close to the centre of things.’

  ‘You need peaceful surroundings, Tribune,’ said the Lady Helena. ‘I know what these apartments are like. Well used and basic, and not the best environment for a healing process. Why not take a look round Watercombe? We have rooms still available this early in the season, and you need not commit yourself until you’ve seen what facilities we supply. Everyone is welcome, even if it’s only for the rest.’ Her glance fell for a moment upon Tullus, and Brighid had no doubt at all that she was remembering how his strong arms had carried her like a child to her litter only a day ago. Almost at once her glance slid away to Brighid, her arm gracefully waving towards the green-painted wall behind them where a series of alcoves housed figurines of gods and goddesses with lamps burning before each. ‘You see, our own lares over there represent most deities. We try to cater for everyone’s needs here, whatever they are. Diets and deities.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ said Tullus.

  Brighid thought the lady blushed a little before she replied, non-committally. ‘Oh, for some years. I started it with my first husband, but it’s my present husband who made it what it is now. He’s a water engineer, you know. He’s built Watercombe up from very humble beginnings. Now, shall we take a stroll round? I’ll show you the healing rooms first, since they’re nearest. Just through here.’

  Brighid had already begun to reap the benefits of her transformation from tribal princess to supposed Roman citizen, but now she saw yet another side to her newest status as the Tribune’s personal healer. Following one pace behind, it was impressed upon her yet again that if she had not been so determined to find her erstwhile suitor, she could easily get used to being the woman of Quintus Tiberius Martial. Last night she had lain in his arms again, perhaps for the last time, and although he had not ventured further than before, after her prickly reaction earlier, his kisses might easily have persuaded her to find out exactly what it was she’d been holding on to for the sake of a man she hardly knew. After guarding herself so closely, she could only hope that Helm would appreciate the danger she’d been in. More than that, she hoped he’d be worth the wait.

  Keeping one eye on the tall soldierly figure of the Tribune, she wondered if her recent night fears were a warning that, when they parted, her life would revert to a system even more constrained than the one she’d left behind. Was she doing the right thing? Was there a better alternative? Would the Tribune keep her for as long as it suited him before finding a woman of his own class? A woman of good family, with connections, wealth and culture? Was she beginning to love him already? Was it her imagination, or had he suddenly begun to walk with a slight limp again?

  She was saved from dwelling on these matters by the appearance of the Lady Helena’s young daughter, a sweet-faced child of four summers with her mother’s dark good looks, who took an instant fancy to Brighid and the exotic appeal of her gold ornaments and elaborately braided hair; young Carina felt that to hold the Princess’s hand might endow her with the same sense of theatre conveyed by her mother’s guest. A little later, Carina was delighted to tell her, away from the others, that the stunning mosaic floors were specially made in local workshops, but that Mama thought the dancing ladies ought to be wearing clothes.

  In the healing room and the temple, their brief visit was conducted in whispers, patients occupying the small cubicles for private consultation with white-robed ladies and an ancient white-haired man. A crowd waited patiently outside. None of the Tribune’s party had known what to expect from a privately run concern like Watercombe, but none of them could fail to be impressed by the businesslike approach to people’s suffering where every kind of problem was dealt with by dream interpretation, water therapy, medicine and meditation, divination, physiotherapy and sound advice. They must, Brighid remarked, employ many specialists. ‘Yes, we also have a priest here,’ Helena Coronis told her, pointing out the shrine-building, ‘and an expert in dreams. It’s an important part of our treatment that most of
our guests undergo to discover the cause of their problem. Over there are the sleeping cubicles where they stay for a night under supervised conditions. In the bath-houses we have a massage room, aromatherapy and the facial and physical rooms, the exercise hall, the surgery and birthing-room—’

  ‘And the perfumery, Mama. That’s the room I like best,’ said Carina, bending down to study her reflection in a pool of green water.

  They walked along gravel paths and up white stone steps to higher levels where more pools shimmered with orange-gold fish darting and diving beneath water lilies. Every fountain was of a different design, waterfalls gushed out of fern-covered retaining walls, and it was Carina who happily pointed out the various springs that fed the pools and cascaded down past the house through channels into the bath complex. ‘Papa did it,’ she said, proudly. ‘He’s clever. He knows all about water.’

  Lucan pointed to red-tiled rooftops appearing through the trees. ‘I can hear hammering,’ he said. ‘What’s over there? New buildings going up?’

  ‘The workshops,’ said Lady Helena, ‘for maintenance, you know. There’s a water-powered mill for grinding our flour, too, granary and storerooms, a large garden where we grow our own produce, a kiln and drying ovens for the grain. My husband has done wonders in the last few years.’ Absently, one hand came to rest softly over her forearm, the arm that Brighid had touched the day before; it seemed to Brighid that, as the lady quickly averted her face, the praise of her husband’s efforts was like an incantation she had learnt to recite when asked, her tone rather lacking the conviction of a genuinely proud and appreciative wife.

  In view of the distress of the previous day, Brighid thought the lady was putting on a good show of contentment with her beautiful home and thriving business. That it brought in substantial wealth could not be doubted when everything pointed to the family’s affluence. Lady Helena’s blue sheer-silk stola was embroidered with gold threads around its hem, with more gold and lapis lazuli hanging from her ears. She was certainly blessed with wealth and material comforts of every sort and, if she was ill, then surely she was in no better place to find relief.

  The large two-storey block they had passed on the way in turned out to be the guest apartments leading to the bath-house and exercise hall, but the difference between these beautifully appointed rooms and the ones in which they’d spent the last two nights was enough to persuade Quintus that the extra expense would be justified. The rest of his retinue, he said, could stay where they were in Aquae Sulis. He had already caught Brighid’s admiration of the garden scenes on the walls, the green-and-white décor, the tasteful furnishings. There was a carved wooden couch with a white tasselled blanket and huge green cushions, a tigerskin on the floor, a bronze candelabrum and a stove on tall legs to warm chilly nights. On the low table was a silver jug, silver beakers and a bowl filled with early roses. In an alcove stood a bronze figurine of the goddess Venus with buttocks shining like an apple—placed there, Brighid guessed, to aid couples who were having problems conceiving.

  Leaving Tullus and Lucan to visit the exercise hall, Helena Coronis took them back to the atrium to arrange for their things to be brought from town. The appearance of two young ladies walking arm in arm attracted Brighid’s attention, and she thought they might have stopped to talk had not Helena Coronis been with guests. From across the pool they waved to each other with a smile. ‘My elder daughter,’ she said, ‘and one of our long-stay guests.’

  ‘Your daughter?’ Brighid said, watching young Carina skip over to them and take their hands. ‘I thought …’

  ‘By my first marriage. Clodia is seventeen now. The other young woman is Dora, short for Theodora, staying here until her babe is born. Lovely girl. Her husband is a friend of ours.’

  ‘And your two daughters get on well together, I see.’

  ‘Thank the gods, they do. They’re the loves of my life.’ It was a bold statement that she did not try to amend to include her husband, as though it mattered little what construction was placed upon it.

  ‘You are fortunate,’ Brighid replied, as Quintus strolled away to meet Florian.

  ‘I suppose I am …’ the lady sighed’ … compared to some unhappy wretches who come here. But I wanted to thank you for … well …’

  Brighid shook her head. ‘We are both healers,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we can talk some time?’

  ‘That’s why I’d like you to stay here a while, if your master will allow it. Your … er … the Tribune needs medication still, does he?’

  ‘Remedial exercise mostly. Florian over there is his masseur, but the Tribune needs rest, too. Watercombe will be better for him than the public baths.’ Looking at the subject of their conversation, neither of the women thought there was much wrong with him that some strenuous exercise could not remedy. But Quintus stood in conversation with Florian and Math where it looked as if there might be trouble brewing, Quintus standing with hands on hips, looking down his nose at the two lads before him. Florian was almost in tears.

  At once it occurred to Brighid that Quintus was sending her brother away, as he had said he would when they reached Aquae Sulis. She ought not to interfere, yet she needed Math’s help now more than ever. She went to stand beside him. ‘Please, my lord,’ Florian was pleading, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘Not even for a few more days? He’s been such a help to me. Please?‘

  Quintus half-turned to Brighid, almost expecting her to intercede. ‘He has been a great help,’ she said, trying to sound impartial, ‘and Florian will need a partner in a strange town. Perhaps Max could be my personal helpmate? Just to complete the image?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Math said, ‘I could serve the Princess well, I assure you. I’d be happy to protect her wherever she goes, if you’ll allow it. More than happy.’

  ‘Hah!’ said Quintus, cynically. ‘You’d have to keep your wits about you, then. I fear the shoe might be on the other foot.’

  ‘Give him a chance,’ Brighid whispered. ‘Just while we’re here?’

  ‘Stop howling, man,’ Quintus said to Florian. ‘You can keep your mate and the Princess can have a new helpmate, and you,’ he said, glaring at Math, ‘had better earn your keep, or you’ll be off! Now go to the lodgings and bring our things back here.’ He placed an arm across Brighid’s shoulders in an unusual display of public affection frowned upon in Roman society, even amongst married couples. ‘And you, my beautiful slave,’ he said in a low voice, ‘had better earn your keep, too, if you want to stay at this expensive place. Don’t go wandering off with that useless young lout unless Florian goes along, too. He’s all promises, but I know perfectly well why he wants to stay.’

  ‘You do?’ Brighid said, feeling a tightness in her chest.

  ‘Well, of course I do. Ah, Lady Helena, it’s all arranged. Our belongings will be here in a few hours.’

  It was only a few moments later, when they were joined by Lucan and Tullus, that they met the husband of Helena Coronis strolling along the gravel path with his stepdaughter and her friend on each side of him. They were laughing at some private joke and so did not see the group surrounding his wife until they were only a few yards away, giving Brighid time to take a long look at the man of whom his family were so proud. The man to whom Helm was a friend.

  They made an interesting trio, the pretty Clodia, longhaired, slender and gangly; her friend Dora, heavily pregnant and almost certainly an ex-slave, if her very short cropped hair was anything to go by. Here was something of a mystery, Brighid thought, for pregnant slaves were not usually afforded any special treatment unless… . unless? She had expected the Lady Helena’s husband to be about the same age as her, so it came as something of a surprise to see a man of younger years, well built and looking as if a regular five-mile run before breakfast kept him in trim. He was not quite as tall as Quintus, perhaps because his head was shaved almost to the scalp, though the severe style suited his healthy glow. Looking up, his blue eyes quickly assessed the group ahead of him, lingering over Brigh
id before stepping ahead of his two companions to make a short respectful bow to Quintus, whose rank he clearly recognised.

  ‘Allow me, my lord,’ said the Lady Helena, ‘to present my husband, Publius Cato Valens. The Tribune Quintus Tiberius Martial.’

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘And his two friends, Lucan and Tullus.’

  ‘Sirs.’

  ‘And the Princess Brighid, the Tribune’s healer.’

  ‘Princess.’ He was far too diplomatic to address anything directly to her at this early stage, so his remark was made to Quintus instead. ‘Our guests do occasionally bring their physicians along, too, my lord. Comparisons are always healthy, I say.’

  ‘The comparison between Watercombe and our lodgings in the town is both healthy and rewarding,’ he replied. ‘It’s a beautiful place you have here, Valens.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re staying in Aquae Sulis. On business, or for recreation?’

  ‘Your good lady has been kind enough to offer us rooms here. Which pleases my friend Tullus particularly. He’s very interested in your use of the local water.’

  The blue eyes dodged across to his wife’s face before resuming their expression of polite regard, but Brighid felt his wife stiffen very slightly as if that look held more than approval. Or less. ‘Excellent,’ he said, agreeably. ‘So you’re to stay with us. I’m sure she will make you comfortable. She excels in the art of good hospitality and I shall personally show you round the water systems, at your convenience. Perhaps you would do us the honour of dining with us this evening, before your treatment begins? After that, they may decide you need starving. Who knows?’

  Quintus smiled. ‘Last chance, then. Thank you.’