Slave Princess

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Including that lad you brought back with you. He seems to think he’s a fixture. What’s he for, exactly?’

Florian coloured up, his eyes darting over the fabrics. ‘He’s … er … for me, sir. He helped me to choose the domina’s shrine and explained to me which one was Brigantia. And then we found that … well … that we liked each other. Sir. He’s very well spoken. Travelling down to Aquae Sulis, like us. I didn’t think you’d mind.’ His expression seemed to turn inwards. ‘And I don’t like sharing my mattress with people I don’t like. And if you’re going to be with.’ He glanced at Brighid.

‘Enough! You’re a rascal, Florian. I ought to beat you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Give him something to do. I don’t want hangers-on in my party. He can stay as far as there and no further, so don’t get too attached to him. He’ll have to work his passage.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Now you and the Princess had better cobble something together before we reach Lindum. Use the green. Did you buy threads?’

‘I bought a workbox for the domina, sir. She has nothing.’

‘Hmmm! Right.’

It appeared, after Quintus’s departure, that Florian’s purchases were rather more extensive than he had implied, for the workbox contained several extras for Brighid’s personal use: scissors and tweezers, hanks of threads and needles, two brass mirrors, one large and one small for her purse, combs of bone and ivory, a pair of coloured glass bottles with stoppers, a pot of lip salve, two horn spoons and a bone-handled knife, two pewter dishes and bowls, a silk cushion, and her own Samian-ware beaker with hares chasing round the sides. And a basket-woven stool with a lid, to keep things in.

For her under- and over-gowns, no shaping was needed, each piece being little more than an oblong fastened together along shoulders and arms with small clasps, gathered into the waist with long ribbons that crossed over and under the breasts in a most seductive fashion. It being so different from her usual baggy shapeless garment, Brighid felt compelled to conceal various personal assets under the casual drape of a scarf. But Florian pulled it away, insisting that she need not be so coy when every fashionable matron would gladly show off what Brighid had, and more. ‘They bind themselves up,’ he said, admiring Brighid’s beautiful firm bosom, ‘to keep them from falling all over the place.’

‘Florian … please!’

‘It’s true. You go in and come out in all the right places. Why hide it?’

The notion was not unfamiliar. There had been women in the village who hid very little, women taken noisily to her father’s bed by night and condemned by day for their whores’ tricks. Yet his daughter he had always kept close and safe from all censure. Here, well away from his influence, he could neither approve or disapprove of how she looked. Here, she could be a woman at last. Now, it would be what the Tribune wanted, and secretly what she wanted too. The admission shocked her.

Taking the largest mirror of polished brass, which must have cost a good deal, she studied the transformation, the blue-green reflected in her eyes, the poised and shapely figure swathed in clinging folds, the gold-edged bands outlining her form, the fine white palla draped over her shoulder. ‘Good, Florian,’ she said, with a shy smile.

‘Like it?’

‘Except for the hair. That won’t do, will it?’

‘No. Sit over here by the light. We can soon fix it. Hold the mirror.’

With the heaps of cast-off clothes, fabrics and accessories piled around her feet, she sat and watched how he combed her waist-length hair, taking two fine plaits away from her temples to join the rest which he pulled into a large thick braid twined with ribbons. His hands were deft, and it was obvious that the art of dressing a woman’s hair was well known to him, and soon the braid was being coiled and pinned on top of her head in a sleek bun that accentuated the length of her neck. More than ever, the exquisite structure of her face and head were revealed, adding another layer of refinement to what was already graceful.

She knew without being told that, as a slave, she would not be dining with the Tribune or taking any part in the socialising. But from a distance she would be recognised as his woman, and she had agreed to play the part, whatever the cost to her pride. She would not shame herself by forgetting that she was a high-born Brigantian, for that was what he wanted her to be. A Princess. A prize worth having. Owned by him. Envied by others. Unique and rare. It was a compromise she never thought she might have to make when the man from the Dobunni had sought her for his wife only a few weeks ago.

Once she was alone again and the clutter of dressmaking packed away, Brighid turned her attention to her shrine, devoting the next slow mile to the one whose grace she felt had been forfeited for too long. In this, she exaggerated the situation, for Brigantia’s attributes were not only great wisdom but also the gentle arts of healing, culture, poetry and all things domestic, and surely there was no goddess better placed to look with pity upon her subjects than this northern deity whose Roman counterpart was the esteemed Minerva. Brighid herself knew of this exalted connection, but in the hillfort beyond Eboracum, it had meant little to her. She had been born on her goddess’s feast day, Imbolc, the first day of February, when any kind of Roman connection had been too far away to contemplate. Then, the goddess had been offered prestigious sacrifices as thanks. Now, Brighid had nothing to offer except the flowers and her devotion.

It seemed to be enough, for the peace that came with the goddess’s approval brought both tears and smiles to Brighid’s eyes as she blew out the candles for safety’s sake and then sat to consider her immediate future as well as possible uses for the tweezers. There was a limit to which this Romanising fiasco could go, she told herself, placing them at the bottom of her drawstring purse.

As mile after mile of flat land and vast skies flowed sluggishly past, putting time and space between everything that was dear to her, Brighid regretted the loss of the high tors, the fells and ghylls, and the wild moorland that was her home. So she was surprised to find that, as the sun began to dip into an orange-and-purple horizon, the wagon was rumbling slowly uphill towards a sizeable town spreading over a spur set high above the plain. This, Florian told her, was Lindum.

‘You’ve been here before, have you?’

‘We came this way to York, domina. I expect we’ll be staying at the legate’s house again. He’s quite a harmless old thing.’ Legates were not known for being harmless; they were of senatorial rank and very powerful. Florian saw the blank expression and laughed. ‘We shall not see much of him or his wife, I don’t suppose,’ he said, kindly. ‘We’ll stay behind the scenes until we’re needed.’

‘Is Lindum like Eboracum?’ Brighid said, trying to push away the thought that she might be needed.

‘Not now. There used to be a legionary fortress here, but that’s gone. They’ve re-used the buildings for retired army officers, so now they sit over their dining tables, reminiscing about their battles and showing off their scars and appointing themselves as local governors. All veterans, the lot of them. Quite harmless unless you happen to own a bit of land they want to build a basilica or a bath house on. Then they’re not.’ There was a distinctly bitter tone to Florian’s profile of Lindum’s senior citizens that Brighid chose not to enquire into. She did not intend to stay longer than she must with either Florian or his master, so there was little point in being curious, she told herself. Most slaves harboured some resentments.

Seated at the back of the wagon, she was herself an object of curiosity, at first from those following who were intrigued by the transformation, then by those they passed on the busy road into the town. Quintus was also fascinated by the elegant young woman whose combination of tribal and Roman was not only unusual but rather more sensational than even he had anticipated, and Brighid could hardly help but notice how he and his two friends rode immediately behind the guards where they could keep her in view as they passed under the great arch of the north gate. The Tribune had expressed no opinion of Florian’s handiwork, but both slaves had recognised in his eyes a lingering approval as every detail was noted, though his curt nod was the only tangible sign he gave.

Florian had been accurate in his assessment of the elderly legate at whose mansion they arrived after a laborious jostle through the crowds. He had not, however, passed a similar opinion about the legate’s wife who, just as elderly as her husband, had striven for many hours to remove the years from her well-worn face and figure. Sadly, her attempts had not had the desired effect, worst of all being the elaborate black wig that sat too far down on her brow, the knots of which were clearly visible. Left alone, her age-wrinkles would have made a fascinating map of emotion and experience, but the Lady Aurelia’s decision to fill them in with lead-based powder made Brighid pity her and Florian to mutter under his breath that it looked as if she’d fallen into the flour bin again. It was beyond funny, Brighid thought, standing well back behind the Tribune’s two personal slaves, noting at the first glance how the lady’s eyes dwelt greedily upon his handsome face, caressing him with melting looks.

‘Welcome, Tribune,’ she said. ‘Restored to health, I see. You were far from well when we saw you last. The Emperor has looked after you. And Tullus and Lucan, welcome.’

They went to stand in the atrium of the legate’s mansion, now expanded and made more beautiful with painted columns and a tiled floor. A fountain caught the late afternoon sun before sparkling into the green pool; it was the cool lure of water that held Brighid’s attention as Florian nudged her into awareness. ‘Follow,’ he whispered. ‘Keep up. And keep your eyes lowered.’

‘She’s staring at me.’

‘So’s the old man, but you know better than to stare back.’

Gliding ahead in a swirl of orange-and-yellow silks, the Lady Aurelia led her guests along cool corridors, past doorways that had once been offices and round to the far side of the block where rooms had been set aside for Quintus’s retinue. Brighid tried hard to make herself invisible against the green-painted walls, but the high-pitched voice of their hostess was meant to reach her ears as well as the Tribune’s. ‘There’s a room upstairs for your slaves,’ she said. ‘There’ll be food for them in the kitchen after we’ve eaten. We shall be ready to dine as soon as you’ve bathed, Tribune, and I can find a task for the girl, if you’ve finished with her for the day.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Quintus, ‘but I shall be keeping her with me.’ There was an authority in his voice with which even the Lady Aurelia chose not to argue and, with a lift of her eyebrows and a stony stare sent like a dart in Brighid’s direction, she left the room with Tullus and Lucan, leaving a faint vinegary smell in her wake. Quintus put the back of his hand to his nose, but whether to cover a smile or to stifle the smell no one could tell. He did, however, glance at Brighid, his dark brooding expression making her wonder what thoughts were passing through his mind, and whether his sigh was one of relief or annoyance.

Since he appeared to have all the assistance he needed, she decided to sit out of the way on a small day-bed by the wall and to take out her sewing, of which there was still plenty. It had not been easy to ply a needle in a jolting wagon, and here was a chance to make use of the last daylight hour. The Tribune’s order to one of his slaves took her by surprise. ‘Find your way to the kitchen and request a tray of food for the Princess. She’s not going to wait till midnight before she gets a bite to eat. And fresh milk, not wine. I want it in here by the time I’ve bathed. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Florian, you stay here with the Princess and prepare my clothes. You come with me, lad,’ he said to the other one. ‘You, Princess, will stay in this room. No exploring.’ She knew he must have read her mind, for the baths would be abandoned when the guests went in to dine. She doubted if Florian would stay here all that time, with a new friend waiting for him.

The new friend had not been inclined to wait, and he found a way to the Tribune’s room soon after the guests had assembled and the sound of laughter had floated away into the spacious triclinium where the aroma of food mingled with the perfumed hems of robes. Brighid was eating ravenously, hardly bothering to look up as the discreet knock on the door broke the silence. Florian was on his feet immediately, as if that was what he’d been hoping for.

‘Come inside quickly,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t stay.’

‘I know.’

At the sound of the voice, Brighid almost cried out and, had her mouth not been full of food, she might well have done so at the secretive half-smile sent over Florian’s shoulder. So, she had not been abandoned after all. Her prayers had been answered.

Math, she whispered. Dearest brother. You came for me.

But Math frowned her to silence as Florian turned to introduce him and her smile had to be reined in before the joy and relief showed in her eyes.

Chapter Four

Brighid’s tray of food, which was much better than slaves’ fare and had been tasty a moment ago, now lost all flavour in the excitement of seeing her brother again after all the terrible heartache of separation. Older than her by only eighteen moons, Math was the younger of the two brothers, though all three siblings had different mothers. It was a custom taken to its limits by their father, the chieftain. Consequently Math bore no resemblance to his sister, and so little did he resemble his father in all the ways that mattered that beatings and scorn were daily fodder to the gentle young man who had felt that life without his sister would be unbearable.

From beneath her lashes, Brighid observed Math and Florian together and wondered why in twenty years she had never reached the same conclusion about her brother as she had about Florian in one day. Here in the company of Roman citizens, Florian’s gentle tendencies were appreciated and utilised, not ridiculed, whereas at home in the hill-fort Math’s ineptitude in all manly pursuits was seen as a disgrace. Was coming to find his sister and return her to her people Math’s way of redeeming himself in his father’s eyes? If there was a way, he would surely find it.

She could understand the brevity of their introduction, with Florian providing no more than a name. ‘Princess, allow me to present my friend Max. Max, this is the Princess. She’s the one I was purchasing the shrine for.’

Math bowed politely. ‘I hope you were happy with our choice, domina,’ he said.