Читать книгу Virgin Slave, Barbarian King - Louise Allen - Страница 7

Courage and strength, Julia mocked herself bitterly as she gripped Berig’s belt and fought for balance on the horse’s rump. And what opportunities do you ever have for exercising those, Julia Livia? Do you even possess them? When had she ever had to stand up for herself and use her own initiative?

Shop here, wear this, go to this party, not to that one. Be friends with those girls, that one is unsuitable…Marry Antonius Justus Celsus. Yes, Father, yes, Mother. Whatever you say. He is boring and smug and he’ll have two chins in five years, but it is the right thing to do to marry him. So suitable.

Being carried off as a slave by a golden giant with a wolf and a boy at his heels was not suitable. But how do you learn to fight if you have never had to before?

‘This one?’ Berig’s voice snapped her out of her whirling thoughts. They had halted in front of the plain high wall and closed doors of what she guessed must be a prosperous merchant’s house. ‘It looks a poor place.’

‘With these walls and those locks?’ Wulfric leaned over and hammered on the unyielding planks. ‘I don’t think they want to let us in. Why do you think that is?’ Julia smiled inwardly; her own home had doors and walls that were even better than these.

Wulfric edged the ugly grey horse up to the wall, and stood up on its back with a smoothness that had her gaping. He reached high, grasped the top of the wall and hauled himself up, muscles bulging with effort. With a grunt he straddled the wall, then vanished.

‘You are thieves, all of you,’ Julia spat at Berig’s back, fury at her own reaction to that display of brute strength lending venom to her words.

The boy shifted in the saddle and half turned. Focusing on him, she saw he had a snub nose, blonder hair than Wulfric, vivid blue eyes. ‘We keep our word, all of us. Your emperor is an oath-breaker.’ He put loathing into the words. ‘There is nothing worse. If you cannot trust a man’s word, what can you trust? He is less than a man, he is not fit to lead.’

‘It is politics. Honorius must do what is right for the state,’ Julia protested. What am I doing, debating politics with a barbarian youth while the city burns around us?

The boy stared at her as though she had sprouted two heads. ‘Do Roman women understand nothing of honour? Your emperor gave his word. He broke it, now he must pay.’

She was saved from answering him by the doors swinging open and Wulfric appearing on the threshold. ‘They have fled and abandoned their slaves, let’s see what else they left behind.’ He whistled and the grey followed him, Berig’s mount behind. Hooves cracked sharply on the expensive mosaics of the entrance.

‘Where would you hide the family treasure, Julia?’ Wulfric enquired, his eyes scanning the empty peristyle. There was a muted scuffle from the shadows; the whites of wide eyes were just visible.

‘You! Come out, I will not hurt you.’ To Julia’s amazement the slaves shuffled out of hiding, their eyes fixed on the big man like mice in front of a fox. ‘Your master does not treat you well.’ It was a statement, not a question. The group were thin, bruises showed. ‘Perhaps you saw where he hid his gold before he ran and left you.’

They shook their heads, silent. Then their gazes slid furtively towards the big urn standing in the open space. A drooping laurel bush stuck out of the top.

‘Not a good time of year to be transplanting shrubs,’ Wulfric observed, strolling over and giving the urn a push. It was rock solid, taller than he was. ‘Fetch me a rope, a long, strong one.’

The oldest slave, the steward perhaps, grinned suddenly and hurried off, returning with a hefty coil of hemp in his hands. Wulfric tied it round the urn, fed it round the nearest pillar, then tossed the end up to Berig before remounting. The two riders looped the rope on their pommels and began to back the horses. Craning round Berig’s shoulder, Julia saw the urn rock. The grey’s hooves slithered on the mosaic, there was a lurch and the marble vessel toppled over to smash on the paving.

No wonder the shrub had been drooping! It was planted in pure gold, a mass of coins that spun and flashed on the paving. The slaves hurried forward and began to scoop up the money, stuffing it into the saddle-bags that Wulfric gave them with an enthusiasm that said everything about their feelings for their master.

When the bags were full, one woman ran off and found more. ‘Keep the rest.’ Wulfric secured the gold behind his saddle. ‘And run.’

‘One of them is sure to be able to cook better than I can and they are slaves already,’ Julia protested.

‘Yes, but I want you.’ Wulfric smiled. It was not an indication of weakness—even in her desperate state she was all too aware of that—but it held a touch more warmth again.

Something cold settled in Julia’s stomach. She tried to tell herself he had meant it when he said he did not believe in ravishing women. Surely he did not think he would not have to? That she would willingly…Oh, no, my arrogant barbarian, if you think that broad shoulders and big muscles are going to seduce Julia Livia Rufa, you are in for a major disappointment.

They stopped again further down the street in front of an arched doorway. ‘No!’ she protested. ‘Don’t you dare, you thieving pagans! That is a church, it is sacred…’

‘Yes, I know.’ Wulfric swung down from the saddle. ‘I want to check they have had no trouble.’ He disappeared inside, leaving Julia gaping after him.

‘We are Christians,’ Berig said angrily. ‘Don’t you Romans know anything about anyone else?’

‘I…I didn’t think. But you haven’t been Christians very long, have you? Some of you still worship the old gods?’

‘A few, perhaps,’ the lad conceded. ‘It doesn’t mean we would smash up a church. And I will wager some Romans still worship your old gods as well.’

Grandmother for one. Julia knew her father’s mother kept the shrine to the household gods tended, despite her son’s displeasure. She bit her lip. What else did she not know about these people? She recalled seeing Wulfric’s lips move as he had laid the slave girl down in the burning shop. Had he been praying over her? And she, Julia, had not even thought to do so. Ashamed, she tried to fashion the words, but her mind was too muddled to find them.

Wulfric emerged. ‘They are all right, Theofrid passed this way two hours ago and gave them a password.’

Julia looked about her, puzzled. This was not at all what she had expected the sacking of a city to be like. True, there was panic and confusion, smoke was rising everywhere she looked and she was with two men whose saddle-bags bulged with looted gold. But she had expected blood to be running in the street, churches and palaces to be burning, savage men, painted with strange symbols, to be dragging women off by their hair for unspeakable purposes. This was more like a particularly forceful form of tax collecting. With human coin.

‘We will go to the Forum, see who else is there.’ Julia’s spirits rose—surely there would be soldiers, surely some resistance to this invasion was being organised? By going to the Forum they would be walking right into the hands of the emperor’s men and she would be saved.

But they were moving against the tide of people streaming away from the heart of the city and her confidence began to ebb. Why were people fleeing, unless the Goths had overrun the Forum itself? Other riders, dressed like Wulfric, their hair long on their shoulders, fell in beside them.

Greetings were exchanged in the tongue she could not understand, snatches of news tossed from rider to rider. A knot of men on foot were herding a group in tunics before them. From the resigned expressions on the captives’ faces, Julia guessed they must already be slaves.

Berig was calling to another group who appeared to be teasing him about his captive. Julia turned her head away from their curious stares with a haughty lift of her chin and found herself looking into the startled face of a man she knew, half-hidden in a doorway.

‘Marcus! Marcus Atilius! Help me!’ The young man, her neighbour, started from his concealment, then began to back away as the riders closed up around Berig’s horse. ‘Tell my father,’ she shouted as he took to his heels. ‘Tell Antonius Justus! I have been kidnapped!

‘Let me go!’ Seeing someone she knew galvanised her, gave her hope. She jerked at the bonds linking her to Berig, then tried to score her fingernails into his back.

‘Ouch, you cat, stop that!’ He twisted round, furious, hissing with pain as Wulfric wheeled his mount alongside them.

‘Stop it.’ He reached out one hand and jerked back her clawing fingers. ‘If you do that again, I’ll sling you over the front of my saddle like a sack of grain, which won’t do much for your dignity, my lady.’

Julia subsided, more shaken than she was willing to admit to herself. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, had been the thought that she would be rescued just as soon as someone in authority realised her predicament. She had expected to find all the young men of patrician birth had taken up arms and were defending Rome, while their elders met to form strategy in the Basilica.

But if men like Marcus Atilius were skulking in doorways, togas or silk tunics hidden under dark cloaks, then who was rallying the troops?

No one was the answer, she saw as soon as they reached the Forum. The heart of Rome, its pride, was overrun by the besiegers. Groups of mounted men shouted news to each other, others mustered carts laden with chests, sacks of food, barrels. Anxious huddles of slaves waited the pleasure of their new masters—and there was not a sign of resistance.

Wulfric reined in under the circular wall of the ancient Temple of Vesta. It seemed it was a prearranged meeting point, for the men already there crowded forward, clenched fists raised in salute.

Thirsty, stiff, hungry, almost beyond fear with sheer discomfort, Julia let herself lean against Berig’s back, let the noise wash over her, and sank into a half faint, half doze.

‘Here.’ Someone was shaking her shoulder. Wearily she raised her head. Wulfric was holding out a flask. ‘Drink, you must be thirsty.’

‘How can I? My hands are tied.’ The thought of water made her dry throat tighten with longing, but she refused to thank him.

Wulfric leaned forward and released one wrist. Julia took the flask and drank. It was watered wine, a poor thin red probably snatched from a tavern, but it went down like the finest vintage from the family vineyards. She handed it back with a stiff nod. He did not try and secure her wrist again and she realised as she steadied herself that the pommel of Berig’s knife was now within reach. She could snatch it, hold it to his ribs until they agreed to take her back, or…She let her free hand drift further round the boy’s side as though to secure her position.

‘Berig, move your knife.’ The boy shifted it round, out of her reach, and she glared furiously at the big man.

‘Do you have eyes in the back of your head?’

He grinned, the green eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘Of course, that is how I stay alive. That, and being able to read my enemy’s mind.’

Is that what I am? His enemy? What have I done to him to deserve this?

One of the groups of slaves trudged past and she looked down at them, seeing for the first time just what a mixture they were, the people who made life in the Empire run with the smooth efficiency of a water clock. Tall, sandy-haired, light-skinned Northerners, a few black faces, the wiry stature and deep olive skins of men from the Eastern Empire, all caught up and brought back here. What have they done to deserve it? These barbarians have learned from us and now we reap what we have sown.

‘Come.’ Wulfric raised his voice and heads turned. ‘Back to camp, we have done enough today. Alaric has called a council for tomorrow.’

It seemed Wulfric’s word carried weight. That had been an order, not a suggestion, and Julia watched to see who followed him. Fifty or so men, at a rough count, and many older than him by years, grizzled old veterans.

‘Who is he?’ she asked Berig, once they were away from the hubbub of the Forum. The wine, thin though it was, had revived her; to escape she needed knowledge, needed to understand her captor. ‘Who are all these men?’

‘Our kin and some of those who would ally with us. There are many more than this, of course.’ More? A private army, then.

‘Are you his…no, he is not old enough for you to be his son.’

‘I do not know the word.’ Berig wrestled with it. ‘My mother’s sister married the brother of his mother.’

‘A distant cousin?’ Julia suggested. ‘Why do you serve him?’

‘Cousin.’ The boy practised the word. ‘It is the custom. I serve him, he teaches me how to be a man, how to fight. In two years he will give me my sword.’

‘I see. But why do all these men follow him? They are older than he is, many of them.’

‘Because he is—ah, I do not know the word in Latin! King-worthy? Do you understand? He has the way of it, to lead.’

‘But you have a king. Alaric.’

‘He will not live for ever.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Wulfric is loyal, says Alaric is a good king, but many mutter against him. We have been wandering for years, fighting, waiting for your emperor to honour his word. There are some who say Alaric should have struck harder, sooner.’

Julia stared at the tall figure riding in front of them. Kingworthy. Just what sort of man was she now the chattel of? ‘What must a man do to be king-worthy?’

‘Be wise in Council, fierce in battle, kill the enemy, be cunning in strategy, a law-giver and judge. Be generous to his people and lead them to much gold.’

‘And Wulfric is all that?’

‘And more.’ The boy nodded fiercely, passionate in defence of his lord. ‘He is high in Alaric’s Council.’

‘But so are others?’ she suggested. ‘He is not the heir?’

‘No,’ Berig conceded. ‘It does not work like that. When Alaric dies there will be a fight, perhaps.’ The thought did not seem to alarm him. ‘Look, we are almost there.’

They had passed out of the Salarian Gate without her noticing. Now, in the distance, she could see the smoke from camp-fires, see the low lines of tents, more than the biggest legionary camp she had ever seen. As they came closer she saw that while the shelters might resemble Roman army tents, though in a wild mixture of sizes and colours, the camp seemed to be more a vast village than a military emplacement.

Women were everywhere, bustling amidst the tents, bent over fires, chasing errant children. Hurdles kept horses, oxen, pigs and sheep corralled, the tents were arranged in orderly blocks with streets between them, great wagons were drawn up in rows, banners flapped lazily overhead and mounted men circled the area, their eyes on the horizon.

‘There are thousands,’ she murmured, then started as Wulfric answered her. He must have hearing like his wolf.

‘This is a people, a nation, in search of a homeland. And now you are part of it.’

‘Never,’ she said, as he turned away and began to make his way down one of the wide streets between the tents. ‘Never.’

‘You are very stubborn,’ Berig observed. ‘I thought Roman women stayed at home and did as they were told.’

‘Do Goth women?’

‘Oh, no!’ Berig chuckled. ‘I think you will be quite at home here.’

I very much doubt it, Julia thought grimly. There were the big things to worry about—how to escape, how to survive living with an arrogant, musclebound barbarian until she did. And then there were the trivial things. The things that made life survivable—a proper bathhouse, a proper latrine with running water, civilised food, and someone else to cook it, clean clothes. These were all the things she was not going to find in the midst of these barbarians.

Wulfric dismounted outside the largest tent she had yet seen. Women from neighbouring tents looked up from cooking pots, smiled and waved. A small child, sturdy legs pumping as he ran, skidded to a halt in front of him, tugged at the hem of his tunic and began to pelt him with questions.

Wulfric answered him patiently in his own language, then scooped the child up and deposited him, squealing with delight, on his horse’s saddle and handed him the reins. Julia stared. This was the man Berig said was a possible future king, a ruthless warrior. She tried to imagine any of the senators of her acquaintance stopping to talk to a grubby child, trusting them with their horses.

He hauled down the loaded saddle-bags and untied a bundle of fur and feather that Julia had not noticed before.

‘Dinner.’ He handed it to her. Two rabbits and a game bird of some kind. Even as she held them away from her skirts, grimacing in distaste, the wolf trotted up and dropped another rabbit at her feet, then sat back, panting.

‘I suppose you expect me to be grateful, do you?’ she demanded, glaring at the animal. It lolled its tongue out. She could swear it was grinning.

‘We will eat well tonight,’ Wulfric said. ‘And his name is Smoke.’ The creature lifted its great head at the sound of its name.

‘Does he speak Latin, then?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, is Smoke going to skin these, or pluck them or whatever one does with whatever they are?’ She knew perfectly well what needed doing to them in theory, but she had not the slightest intention of doing it. Let him think her completely pampered, it would put him off his guard.

She expected a show of temper at her defiance, but all Wulfric said was, ‘Berig will do it tonight. And tomorrow I will find someone to show you how to cook.’

Julia looked down her nose at him. ‘We will see about that. And now I want to wash.’

‘We all do.’ Hades, was it impossible to provoke the man? ‘If you go and ask Una there…’he nodded at a young woman who was feeding wood under a vast cauldron ‘…she will give you hot water.’ He slapped the grey horse on its rump and it walked off, its tiny rider crowing with delight and followed by a watchful Berig. Wulfric flipped open the tent flap and vanished inside.

What would happen if she just strolled away, vanished into this city of tents? At her feet Smoke got to his feet, shook himself vigorously and stood waiting. Of course, her hairy bodyguard would bring her back to its hairy master.

Julia grimaced and went over to Una. The other woman smiled. She was fair haired, taller than Julia and, it was apparent, despite her long tunic and swathing cloak, pregnant. ‘Hello. Are you Una? Do you speak Latin?’

‘Some. Better if I practise it.’ Una straightened and rubbed the small of her back, smiling. ‘You are Wulfric’s woman now?’

‘No! He thinks I am his slave.’ They stood looking at each other. Una was obviously working out what Julia’s position was. ‘I need hot water. And I need the latrine.’ And how was she going to mime that, if Una’s Latin was not up to it? Her faintly desperate air must have communicated her meaning. Una smiled and pointed to a square of wattle standing alone in the middle of a clear space.

Julia approached with caution, fearing the worst. The wattle, just the height of her head, had an opening with a baffle screen set inside it, a deep hole with a plank, a bucket of ash with a scoop and a box of large leaves. In the absence of running water, it was remarkably civilised, although how one indicated that it was occupied was a problem. There was nothing for it: Julia sang.

She emerged to find Una scooping hot water into a pair of buckets. She hooked chains on them and lifted a yoke for Julia to step under. ‘Enough?’

‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ Julia took the weight and straightened up. It was not that it was too heavy, although she certainly had to concentrate to keep the buckets steady, it was the symbolism of the thing. She was under Wulfric’s yoke now. She had accepted the first task set her—was there any going back from that?

‘My name is Julia,’ she said abruptly. ‘Julia Livia.’ Una smiled and nodded and went back to making up the fire.

Julia walked slowly to the tent, stooped through the flap and set down the buckets without spilling a drop.

‘Over here.’ Wulfric’s voice was muffled. In the shadows at the back of the tent she could see that he had discarded helmet and sword belt and was pulling the chain-mail shirt over his head.

Doubtless he expected her to rush over and help him. Julia straightened up under the yoke, brought the buckets over and stood and waited while he untangled himself.

The chain mail rattled to the ground, pooling into a heavy mass. It had dragged his linen tunic with it, leaving him bare chested. Julia swallowed.

It was expected of Roman men of good family that they exercised, that they cultivated fitness. They were not bashful about showing off their bodies at the baths or in sport. And the city was littered with statues of naked men, in gleaming white marble or painted in lifelike colours.

But this man was bronze. A bronze god come to life. Every muscle stood out, defined, developed, powerful. His skin was golden and she had a sudden, powerful impulse to put out her hand and feel it, feel the heat, the texture, the pulse beating beneath it. He was more alive than any person she had ever seen and he terrified her.

She realised her mouth was open and snapped it shut.

‘Don’t you ever smile, Julia?’ He was watching her, apparently quite unconscious of the effect his half-naked body was having on her.

‘Yes. All the time—when I have something to smile about,’ she retorted. ‘I shall smile when I am rescued.’

Wulfric lifted his right hand and cupped her chin, his thumb gently pushing up the corner of her stubbornly straight mouth. ‘Smile for me now, Julia.’