Crimson and Steel (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Javad, what is the cause of this disruption?” Marcus, the tall man with the aquiline nose, barked over the commotion.

“Forgiveness, Praetor,” replied the slave master, bowing in courtesy for the elder man’s rank. “One of my girls has run off. It is of no great concern. I have sent my man out to fetch her. All is well.”

“Like hell it is, you piggish Persian prick,” said Braxus, now recovered from the blow Asmin had served him. He shoved Javad, then tugged at his orange robes, jostling him as the crowd that was assembled to observe the slave auction looked on.

The throng of citizens—nobles, whores, beggars, and thieves—gathered in the forum teemed with movement. Susurrations, shouts, and shrieking laughter blended into a cacophony that assaulted the senses, and amid the jangling strife stood these three men. Situated at the base of a high tower built in honor of a conquering emperor, they shouted above the din to be heard. A dispute was to be settled, and the eagle-nosed man with graying temples was fitted for the job.

“Braxus, still yourself,” Marcus said sharply. “Harass Javad no longer. Stop it at once, I say, or I’ll have you arrested and put in chains!”

“Just you try, Praetor,” Braxus challenged, stepping back from the Persian. “The mayor would release me within the hour and have something to say to you, no doubt.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Marcus said with mock recollection. He stepped toward Braxus. The praetor paused and pierced the charioteer with his cold, black gaze, looking through him. “You are one of the mayor’s toys. Think me not as one of the pieces on the good mayor’s game board.”

“Forgiveness, Lord,” Javad implored meekly, breaking the glaring silence, “I promise to make this man happy. There will be no more disruption in the forum from us.”

“See that there isn’t,” ordered Marcus, still fixated on Braxus. He reluctantly turned away from the arena champion and motioned to his secretary Lucian that they were ready to move on.

“Javad…Javad,” came a panting yell from across the piazza. Marcus stopped, cast his eyes to the heavens in exasperation, and turned again to the men in disagreement. A man in a spired helm and brandishing a curved sword skidded to a stop before the Persian slave trader. “Javad, she has fled the city.” Papaios breathlessly bent over and rested his hands on his knees.

“Stow your brand, Scythian,” Marcus said with an air of authority, “lest my men slay you where you stand. A bare blade is forbidden in the city.”

“Forgiveness, please,” Javad begged, pressing his palms together and again bowing to the praetor. “My man is ignorant of such civilized ways.”

“Don’t play the fool.” Marcus wound his toga around his arm. He pointed at Javad and chastised him, saying, “You have been here far too often to beg ignorance. Every time you are here you cause a commotion, and I must involve myself. I grow weary of seeing your swarthy face. Find this man’s property, satisfy his claim, and do it by this time tomorrow, or I will see to it that you will be banished from this town and that you will leave here with nothing! Am I understood?”

“Yes, Lord Praetor, understood, very clear. Thank you, Lord,” Javad replied in utter obeisance.

With that Marcus whirled about and trod into the opposite direction. Quick to his elbow was Lucian, his secretary and personal assistant. A man of about twenty, Lucian wore the military uniform of an officer complete with
lorica musculata.
He bore a wax tablet and walked in double time to keep up with his superior’s long strides. Traveling with the men were six bodyguards that accompanied the praetor everywhere he went. They wore white tunics under red togas and carried long bundles of rods with small ax blades in the center. In the midst of this entourage, at the heels of Marcus, was the tall, blonde girl named Kell.

Kell’s cheeks burned as she became aware of her new owner’s power and prestige. The smells and sights of the city were so exciting and new, yet frightening. All around her was noise, but not a natural noise. Not the sound of tree limbs giving way to the weight of snow in winter. Not the din of the sea crashing against the rocks during a storm. Not the cracking of lighting in the sky and the resounding thunder as Thor felled a frost giant in the high mountains. No, this sound is much different, she thought. This sound was alive, and it writhed and wriggled about as a serpent. Yet her new master cut through it as a longboat skims atop the frothing sea, his men acting as a prow and she a passenger trailing in his wake. Her long legs allowed her to keep up easily, and she listened in as Lucian spoke to the praetor.

“Intelligence from the North is that the Alamanni may be migrating, Praetor,” Lucian reported, bumping into a ragged fishmonger the lictors had failed to wrangle aside. They quickly made up for their error.

“The Germans are always on the move,” Marcus replied drily, not slowing his purposeful pace. “What else?”

“There are more whispers from Eastern travelers mentioning wild horse tribes pushing westward.” The young officer’s tone was subdued as he erased that bit from the wax tablet with the flat of his stylus as though he could stamp out the reality of those words with so simple an act.

“Yes,” the praetor noted grimly. He knew well that horse tribes driving west would displace the Goths, the Goths would displace the Vandals, and so on and so on. In fewer winters than he would like to imagine the Germanic nations would be spilling over the Rhine and Danube, and he was sure that the bickering leadership in Rome was wholly unprepared to deal with it. Frontier generals like himself had been dealing with the barbarian tribes since they were young men. In his heart he knew he’d lead a campaign against a massive uprising before his time was through.

No words were spoken for a moment as they walked on.

“Oh, the guard was changed on the walls on time as per usual, and all weapons in the arsenal were accounted for in the audit,” Lucian said, happy to change the subject, “however, there was a considerable irregularity in the amount of meat in the cook’s storehouse when a surprise inventory of the kitchens was performed.”

“Oh?” Marcus stopped in his tracks and arched an eyebrow. The entourage ground to a halt. “You don’t suppose the old cook has been selling out the back door, do you?”

“Possibly,” answered the assistant impartially. “Or perhaps a slave has taken off with it while the old man was in his cups. He is a lover of the grape. Or maybe Braxus and his ruffians have him in debt over a wager. Any number of things, really. I have him waiting to meet you in your office presently.”

“And I shall see him presently, but first…you.”

The praetor turned and faced Kell, who instinctively lowered her face and looked at the cobbles under her feet. Without realizing it, lost in eavesdropping as she was, they had left the forum and were in the quarter of the city designated for noble residences. She beheld gardens flourishing and equestrian statues looming over polished plazas. Clay-tiled roofs rose over white painted walls. Each manor sported wildly decorated arched gateways, and some had gilt-worked bronze accents.

“Remember, look me in the eye,” Marcus spoke softly and lifted her chin with his finger, his coal-black stare penetrating her sparkling sapphire gaze. “Engrid! Engrid! Come to the gate!”

Kell looked to the archway and saw two men dressed in the crimson tunics and iron armor of Roman legionaries, yet they were no Romans. She knew them to be men of her land, one with a bushy red beard and the other with a thick braid of hair as golden as her own. Each of them stood nearly a foot taller than any of the men in the praetor’s coterie. Kell marveled to see such a thing: warriors of the North serving a lord of the Empire.

“Engrid,” Marcus said loudly once more, cupping his hand to his mouth.

“Coming, Lord. I am here, My Lord,” came a high voice from within the manor. Shuffling out into the street as fast as her feet could carry her came a woman well more than sixty in a pale blue housedress and apron. Her gray hair was bundled under a bonnet, and she held a cleaning cloth in her liver-spotted hand.

“Engrid, this is my new slave,” Marcus stated plainly, motioning to Kell. “Introduce her to the manor and have her prepared by dinner.”

“Yes, Lord,” Engrid replied, bowing slightly, her eyes fixed on the praetor’s face as she moved.

With that, Marcus and his band were again off. Kell and Engrid stood in the plaza as the sound of their feet faded away. Water tinkled in a nearby fountain, and the scent of flowers wafted by on the breeze. The blonde young woman looked about in wonder of the well-kept homes and topiary. Monuments to great generals lined the avenue before her, their visages ever locked in triumph. Had men made them, she thought, or had the Roman gods gifted these to their obedient people? Kell again looked to the Northmen guised as legionnaires and marveled.

“Don’t stand there gawking all day,” chided Engrid, “get inside. We’ve things to do.”

Kell followed the house slave up the neatly trimmed path to the door of the manor, noting the perfection of the lawn, and stepped into the vestibule. The tiny space inside the portal seemed rather glum and dark. Cloaks hung on wooden pegs by the door, and a pair of columns braced the ornamental lentil. Perhaps, Kell wondered, the vestibule was a dreary place, because just beyond lay a lively and golden spot.

“This, child, is the atrium.” Engrid paused. “I know you as one of my own people. I see the wonder in your childlike eyes. You wouldn’t believe it, but mine were once like yours.” Engrid paused and looked at the blonde girl, a paragon of the blossom of youthful beauty. Kell merely smiled and looked on the matron. The house slave shook her head and continued.

“The rain falls and cascades from the layered tiles and drips into the pool you see here.” She motioned, walking around the water. “In some homes that have no piping, the family uses this water for drinking and cooking. Your master has piping, and so we have a fountain where I draw water.”

“Look at all the pretty fish!” Kell said with youthful excitement.

Engrid stopped and glared at her. “Stop with all the baby talk.” Kell stiffened. “You are to call the master ‘Lord,’ and you are to look him in the eye. If you desire a place in this house, you will act like you have some sense. He has no time to abide a fool. Compose yourself like a woman, because a woman is what he will make you, what he will demand of you. Act like a girl, and he will disrespect you, and you will find yourself looking for pity in a whorehouse.”

Cold silence enveloped the room. Shadows played across the older woman’s face as clouds shifted in the heavens. After tense moments she continued. “The sun also lights this room more than any other. Guests are greeted here. Often the praetor will sit in these bowed chairs and converse and feed the fish bits of bread.”

As Engrid persisted in her monologue, Kell became enamored with the intricate mosaic on the bottom of the pool. Lozenges hued in a myriad of aquamarines and blues were pieced together in an artwork of such mastery that she was sure the maker had been blessed. A great sailing vessel was being heaved up by the sea and accosted by a sea monster. The detail was mind-boggling to the girl. Individual tiles had been cut into slivers in order to make the image perfect. She could not conceive of the amount of time it would have taken a master to plan out and fit together such a thing. She was still coming to grips with the idea that there would be so much surplus bread available that a man might give it to pet fish.

“You’re not listening.” Engrid gruffly interrupted the daydream with a stamp of her foot.

“Yes, I was,” Kell shot back, defensively.

Engrid glowered at her. “Come, I’ll show you your room, and you’ll have a bath.”

The pair walked a short distance down a nearby corridor and entered a meager chamber. Inside was a small bed with a footlocker, a desk and chair, and rough bed dressings folded on the mattress. On the back wall was a window with a carved wooden insert.

“This is mine?” Kell asked softly.

“Yes, unless he desires you sleep in his chambers.”

Kell sat on the bed and swung her legs, smiling. “I’ve never slept anywhere that didn’t have a dirt floor!”

Engrid shook her head at the girl, put her hands on her hips, and begrudgingly laughed. “Pull that tub out into the middle of the room. I’ll bring hot water.”

The slave girl did as she was told, and soon the gray-haired house slave was back carrying a wooden pail of steaming water in each hand, struggling under the weight. She plunked them down with a little splash and matter-of-factly said, “All right, girly, off with your clothes.”

Kell obliged and stepped into the wooden tub. Pulling her knees up close, she barely fit in, but when the steaming water had been added, everything was just right. Engrid gave the girl a bar of scented soap and a sea sponge. She then went to work washing the young girl’s hair.

“What are these?” asked Kell as she smelled the lavender-scented suds.

“They are luxuries that your lord can afford,” Engrid said proudly. “He is a wealthy man, and he wants to make sure that you smell good for him this night.”

Kell wrinkled up her nose, sniffed it again, and decided she was unsure about the soap. She ran the sponge over her flesh as Engrid worked her bony fingers into her thick, golden mane. Weeks of road grime had settled into her scalp.

“What is a praetor?”

“A praetor is an important and powerful man,” answered Engrid, an air of superiority in her tone. “A praetor is a leader of the armies. Your lord is like what we call a war king in our lands. He is in charge of the warriors and keeping the peace in the city. You have no idea how lucky you are, little one. Do not waste this chance as others before you have done.”

“Others?” Kell asked, looking back over her shoulder. Damp strands of hair clung to her albescent skin as she twisted to look at the matron.

“Yes, others,” came a brusque reply. “Think you’re so special already? In my time serving the praetor, which is surely longer than the years you have lived, he has had many such as you, and none have stayed for more than a month or so. He seeks something. But I’ll say no more about that. You are clean; stand up, and I will dry you.”

Kell did as she was told, and Engrid began drying her hair before she was able to step out of the tub. The older woman briskly ran a fine towel of Egyptian cotton all through the flaxen tresses. This forced them to frizz and fray wildly. She then toweled off the rest of her flesh and seemed to be nodding to herself in satisfaction as she went.

“He will like you,” she remarked rather offhandedly as she gathered clothing from the footlocker. “You’ve no bruising or tattoos. That is important to the lord. Come, raise your arms.”

The matron helped Kell into a soft linen tunic trimmed in cloth of gold along every hem and finished it off with an amber-hued cord belted around her trim waist.

“It…it doesn’t seem to quite fit.” Kell giggled at her predicament. No matter how she tugged, she could not completely cover her rear.

“You’ve long legs, young one,” Engrid said drily, and motioned for her to sit so she could prepare her unruly mane with a brush. “Pay it no mind. Your master will enjoy it.”

Kell bit her lip and struggled to stay silent as the house slave brutally yanked out every knot in her hair with her merciless brush. When the task was completed she was sure she would be half-bald, but when she ran her fingers through her locks, she found them to be fluffy and silken. Perhaps the old woman knew what she was doing. A dab of perfume behind the ears and a touch of Egyptian makeup to an old scar, and Engrid was finished with her.

“Now don’t go telling the praetor about the makeup. He likes his women natural. I’ve got to see about making dinner. Don’t go roaming too far off. When I call for you, come quickly.”

With that Engrid left Kell to her own devices. The young blonde wandered about the manor, first returning to the atrium and watching the fish that had delighted her so. She sat in one of the scooping chairs and tittered to herself. In her land only the chieftain of a clan sat in a chair at the head of the feasting board. Even great warriors sat on benches, never a chair of their own. Now she, a slave to a Roman, sat in a chair! And dressed in finery! The folly of it forced a full-on laugh, but she stifled such a noise for fear of raising Engrid’s ire.

Kell rose after a while and explored. She came to a corridor on the opposite side of the manor that was darkened save for a shaft of light piercing the hallway at an angle as to illuminate the right-hand wall. Curious, she stepped lightly down the dreary corridor until she came to a place that glowed. A glass skylight had been built into the roof for the specific purpose of lighting a fresco. Masterfully hand-painted on the wall between two doors was a portrait of a young blonde woman. Her cheeks were rosy, her blue eyes laughing, her elegant neck slightly bent. She held a bouquet of bright cerulean flowers and wore ribbons in her long hair. Standing in the light, Kell cast a shadow across the painting, and as she stepped closer to touch the woman’s face, her silhouette crossed over the fresco. A shiver coursed through her, and she dropped her hand.

“Kell! Kell!” She turned at the cry from the kitchen and padded away from that place.