Roman (15 page)

The crowd gasped and clapped.

And there was Isra, standing before the wagon with van Groen's whip in one hand, looking rather startled herself at her abrupt revelation. Her dark eyes were wide beneath the awkward crown upon her head, but Roman had to admit that, from a distance, the complete costume was quite impressive. The white cloth he'd only seen folded in her hands was a long, flowing sheath. It shimmered in the torchlight against her raven hair and dusky skin, and when she raised her hands to indicate the cage behind her, Roman saw a cape attached at her shoulders, knotted tassels along the undersides of her arms.

The painted wooden sides of Kahn's conveyance had been dropped down to reveal ceiling-to-floor bars, and in the far left corner of the crate the tiger lay, his glittering eyes taking in the crowd apathetically. He licked each of his cheek pads in turn and then looked away.

The applause died away after several moments, and soon the only sounds in the chilly night air were the shuffling of feet, the hissing of the flames, the sounds of the night insects. On Roman's shoulder, Lou gave a pair of short cheeps.

“Does it do a trick?” someone from the crowd shouted.

“'E's only lying there.”

“I want to touch it.”

“I want my penny back.”

The grumblings grew louder and more discontented with each passing moment, and Roman felt a knot of unease in his stomach as he saw the panic creeping across Isra's face.

“Uh-oh,” Fran murmured at his side. “She's losing them.”

“How can she lose them?” Roman demanded. “She hasn't done anything.”

“Exactly,” Fran said, and her eyebrows flinched up a bit. “Don't worry. Asa won't let it carry on much longer. He'll save her, mark my words.”

Roman's frown grew deeper, as if his growing concern was burrowing trenches in his face while the crowd's calls became more sinister.

“I don't think it's real. It ain't movin'.”

“Strike it with the whip!”

“I've paid me coin. I'll see it move,” said a skinny, balding man, and he strode toward the wagon with his stick held like a battle sword, as if he had not the least intention of paying Isra even the courtesy of a nod.

Isra's eyes went wide as she watched the man approach the bars. Then her fine brows knit together, and in the next instant the whistle and crack of the whip rang out and the crowd once more gasped itself into polite attention.

The walking stick now lay in the dirt at her feet. The man's face was slack for a moment, and he rubbed the hand that had so recently gripped the stick.

“Ay, now!” he cried out in a warbly, wounded tone.

“Do not approach Kahn,” Isra said, the accent of her words sounding so exotic and smooth and beautiful, Roman felt a tingle in his ears and gooseflesh on his arms.

He leaned toward Fran. “I don't think she'll be requiring van Groen's assistance.”

“I should say not,” Fran whispered in return, and Roman could see the perhaps grudging admiration on the blonde's face.

“All of you,” Isra continued, turning toward the crowd. “For your own safety, I must ask you to stay back from the cage. This . . . this tiger”—she paused, licked her lips—“has a reach twice the height of a grown man. His claws are . . . over a foot in length.” The crowd murmured worryingly. “Should you come too near, he will reach through the bars and pull you in.” She paused again. “The parts of you that fit between them.”

“Thank you, Queen,” the man who'd thought to breach the cage said, dropping to one knee before Isra and bowing his head. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Isra looked down at him with such a perfect expression of royal haughtiness, Roman wanted to cheer. “Take your cane and go.”

Once the man had melted back into the crowd, Isra turned her attention to them again.

“The tiger is hypnotic, magical. There are many legends from my land about his strength and power. From his teeth and claws drip venom. In a blink”—she snapped her fingers and the crowd seemed to flinch—“he will have appeared and pounced on you. You have no chance,” she said, shaking her head as if in regret.

Roman happened to catch a glimpse of Asa van Groen, leaning against one of the curtain poles beyond the edge of the crowd. His arms were crossed over his velvet-clad chest, and he was smiling at Isra. This caused Roman to frown, but only for a moment, as the woman in white demanded his attention as well.

“Only I, mistress of the wild Kahn, have any hope of survival,” she said. “And so now, I will risk my life for your pleasure.”

“What is she doing?” Fran murmured.

“I don't know,” Roman said with growing unease as he watched Isra walk to the back of the wagon. A young man stood on a rear wheel with one hand on the door latch and what appeared to be a brace of rabbits in his other fist.

Isra placed one slippered foot on the ramp and then held out the hand not gripping the whip to take the rabbits. She nodded to him, but then seemed to remember the crowd, leaning forward in anticipation.

She turned her face slightly toward them and commanded, “Open the cage!” The lad swung the door wide and Isra started up the ramp.

“She's goin'
in there
!”

“No, my lady—don't!”

“Oh, mercy, I can't look.”

Roman, too, felt more than a little trepidation at Isra entering the wagon before all these people. Even though she had done as much earlier this very day, she had been separated from the beast then and Kahn had since eaten. Perhaps he would be feeling stronger, more resentful of his space being invaded by this human. Roman wanted to call out to Isra as the crowd was doing, but he would not distract her. Isra was doing as she wished and, in truth, she had everyone in the field enthralled, villager and performer alike—especially Roman.

So he tightened his jaw and watched, controlling his breathing as if he could send a sense of calm to the woman no one could take their eyes from.

As soon as Isra crossed the threshold, the lad on the wheel shut the door behind her and dropped the bar in place. Isra was trapped now. If the tiger chose to attack, there would be little chance of getting her out of the cage before she was mauled. The torchlight rippled over her white gown and the crowd was so silent Roman could almost hear individual breaths from the audience over his own.

“Hie, Kahn!” Isra called out. “Hie! Up!”

The tiger stared at Isra for what seemed to Roman to be an eternity but was likely only a heartbeat. And then he began to pull his great, lithe mass from the corner with a low growl, growing longer between the bars, like a striped tide rising.

The crowd gave a muffled gasp at seeing the beast uncoiled and at attention, and they gasped once more as Isra took a deliberate step toward the tiger. Roman forced himself to swallow, to remain still.

“Hie, Kahn!” she commanded again, and the tiger took another rolling, hesitant step toward her. She held up the brace of rabbits.

Roman thought he would shout out despite himself when Kahn suddenly reared up on his hind legs with a scream, pawing at the air with one great forearm. In the next instant, Isra flung the pair of rabbits and sent them spinning across the floor of the cage. The tiger pounced on the carcasses as they shot past him, turning himself away from Isra and causing the cage to rock wildly.

Isra backed to the door and rapped twice, and the lad released her onto the ramp, which she strode down while swinging her doubled whip. She seemed to glide over the ground as she came around the side of the wagon again to face the crowd

Then the scared, hunted woman Roman had found near death on Melk's hillside held out her arms with a beaming smile, her gown shimmering, her crown shining as brightly as the purest polished gold.

“Kahn the Terrible!” she said.

And the night air above the torchlight in the field vibrated with the sound of the cheers for Isra.

I
sra felt as if she was living in a different world. Bundled in a blanket next to Roman on the driver's seat as they made their way south of Venice, she was tempted to believe it was true.

The air had turned icy the night before, leaving the spiny branches overhead black with damp as the early morning sun burned off the frost. Her breath billowed out in front of her, mingling with Roman's as the little gray donkey plodded along the quiet road.

“Not quite as lively as it was yestermorn, is it?” Roman asked, as if he'd read her mind.

“No.” She smiled and turned her head to look at him. In the dawn's light, his curling blond hair and the falcon on its perch over his shoulder gave him the look of a character in some of the little painted Christian icons she'd seen. He was such a beautiful man; she wondered if anyone had ever told him so. “It is peaceful, though. I like it.”

“As do I,” he replied, and his crooked grin encouraged her to lay her temple against her forearms and continue to watch him as he spoke. “I would have wagered the coin you earned last night that we would not have broken camp before the noon hour.”

“I am glad you did not,” she said. “I have never seen a people imbibe as much drink as these have in the last week.”

“I have,” Roman admitted. “But not often, and when I did, the group was comprised wholly of laboring men. Even the . . . I don't know what to call him. Her.”

“Delilah,” Isra offered with a chuckle.

“Yes, Delilah. I reckon she could fell Samson herself with forearms that size, not to mention outdrink him.”

“I think she likes you,” Isra teased. “Her beard would be tickly.”

Roman cast her a sideways glance that conveyed the fact he knew she was tormenting him.

“Do you think women should not drink?” she asked.

He glanced at her again. “Is this a trick question?”

“It is not.” Isra turned her face to rest her chin on her wrists now, closing her eyes and feeling the wind of their passing crisp on her face, numbing her cheeks. “In my country, the women are not to drink. They are to cook and tend the home, the servants. Bear children.”

“I've not seen you drink much,” Roman said. “Does that mean you are an accomplished cook?”

“No.” Isra opened her eyes now, lest the words she spoke caused unwanted images to bloom in her mind. “I would often play in the kitchens when I was small. I had no playmates and so the cook would take pity on me and send me to fetch wood or water, though she never thought to teach me to prepare food. The little chores became Huda's when . . .” She looked away to the side of the road, wrinkled her nose, pressed her lips together before turning forward again. “After my mother was killed.”

He was quiet at her side for several moments, and Isra was angry at herself for ruining the peace of the morning. He was clearly uncomfortable with the subject of her past. Why had she brought it up? It wasn't as if her life was filled with pleasant memories to recount.

“I can cook,” he said at last, his voice steady and even, as if there had been no lull in the conversation at all.

“Can you?” She turned her head on her arms again to look at him, thankful for his rescue. Did he even know he was saving her yet again?

He nodded and still looked at the road ahead, his expression mild, content. Just looking at him made Isra relax.

“The brethren at Melk rotate the differing duties, and that includes time in the kitchens and serving. My stews have become quite good, although my puddings are only passable.”

“I am surprised a man of your size and strength is a capable cook.” And it was the truth. Of all the things she would have guessed Roman to be talented at, culinary proficiency wasn't one of them. “You must make me one of your stews,” she said with a smile. “And a pudding, too, so that I might judge it.”

“I will,” he promised. Then he did glance over at her. “You're enjoying yourself with Kahn, aren't you?”

“Yes.” She had answered him before she'd consciously formed her reply, but now she realized it was true. “I am still very afraid, though.”

Roman chuckled. “No one can fathom it. Certainly not I. Why do you go in the cage and not simply stand outside, as van Groen suggested?”

Isra turned her face forward once more to gaze over the donkey's head, this time forcing herself to collect her thoughts while the low, brushy trees inland of the coast waited politely for them to pass. She pressed her mouth against the backside of her forearm for a moment, and then reminded herself that she had vowed to always tell this man the truth.

She pulled her head back only far enough that her lips could form the words. “I want them to like me.”

Roman glanced at her twice. “The villagers?”

Isra nodded and rested her chin on her arms now, leaving her mouth free to converse. “The villagers. Asa and the troupe.”

“Why would you care what the villagers thought of you? They're all strangers. You'll never see any of them again.”

“But I have seen their kind a thousand times in my life. Only the city they live in and the color of their skin is different. Simple villagers, no one of import, true. But poor people are often the most vicious, my lord. I could not leave my home in Damascus without being spat upon or called vile names in the street. And that was only by the women. Even the beggars knew I was beneath them. They all felt it necessary to remind me and one another at every opportunity.” She paused to swallow and take a deep breath. “I want to at last show someone that I have something to offer, too. I did not know what that thing was—or if I had the ability to do it—until I saw Kahn. Perhaps even when I first saw Princess.”

He was quiet for a very long time, and for most of that time, Isra was afraid to look at him. She was afraid she would see disgust on his face at being reminded of what she was, where she'd come from, what she'd done. And so she continued to stare at the wagon ahead of theirs, watching the little plumes of dust and gravel shoot toward the sides of the road while her shoulders wanted to creep closer to her ears.

“I think they believed you,” he said at last, and again his voice was completely placid. “Perhaps if you do it enough times, you will eventually believe it, too.”

She looked to him quickly but didn't challenge his comment. Her shoulders began to fall back to their normal position when she realized he wasn't going to pursue the conversation. “Will you work for Asa?”

He shrugged. “A duty would pass the time. I am not suited to idleness.” He looked over at her with an easy grin. “I certainly don't have half the talent or beauty you have, so I suppose I must content myself with the occasional menial labor.”

Isra felt her heart expanding inside her chest so rapidly that, for a moment, it interfered with her ability to breathe. In that moment, she wanted to blurt out that when she was with him, she felt capable of attempting things she never would have dreamed. She could do anything if he was waiting for her on the other side of whatever trial was placed before her.

The general in Damascus.

The long, long journey to Melk.

Defying Constantine Gerard.

Facing Kahn for the first time.

Performing with the tiger to ensure her and Roman's survival in Asa's band.

But she managed to find her breath at last and pasted a weak smile on her mouth before looking away from him and saying, “My lord, you are already the queen's most trusted adviser. What more important duty is there?” It was as close as she could come to speaking the truth without making a total fool of herself.

“An adviser, eh?” Roman mused, nodding his head. “That doesn't sound like a strenuous position, but very well. I accept. And so my first duty as your adviser would be to advise you to fetch us a drink. The dust has me parched already, and you must preserve the royal voice.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Isra said, ducking her head and turning on the seat to disappear into the wagon. She collapsed onto the pile of folded blankets and drew deep breaths as she stared at the staves crisscrossing above her, her heart pounding merrily in her chest.

“And stop calling me my lord!” he cried through the opening.

Isra brought her fingertips to her mouth to cover her smile in the dim interior. Then she whispered behind her hand, “Yes, Roman.”

* * *

They had no luck that day or the next, passing over the rocky road through clusters of ramshackle dwellings of poverty-stricken villages littered with ruined fishing nets and heaps of discarded shells. No happy peasants stood along the road waving and throwing fruit as they had before the caravan passed Venice, although they did receive several sideways glares and longing looks as they drove through as quickly as they dared. Asa's men had given the word to roll swiftly; they had been mobbed by destitute bands on more than one occasion apparently. Don't make eye contact, women in the back.

Which caused Roman to wonder about the tall blonde, Fran, who drove her own wagon. She kept to herself, never joining in the nightly gathering around the communal fire, although everyone who spoke her name did so with a hushed deference—save for van Groen, who seemed never to mention her at all. Was there no one to look out for her?

It was an odd thought for him, used as he was to caring for only himself and Lou until Isra Tak'Ahn had come to Melk. He considered for long hours as he drove their wagon in the midst of the caravan whether he might convince himself to fancy the private, artistic woman who claimed coloring so like his own, and he likened the awkwardness of his thoughts to someone imagining what it would be like to suddenly be a fish or a tree; how abruptly different the world would become.

Having a woman of his own would be much the same for Roman as transforming into a different species. He'd never entertained the idea of it before, even as a youth. His adolescence had been spent in backbreaking labor, early adulthood in striving to make a name for himself. Yes, there had been women in his life, in his bed, but it had never progressed further than the physical, and never for longer than the time Roman was in whatever city required his talent. Usually much shorter. A wife would only be left behind in a faraway village or city to tend their children while he was gone for months, years at a time. His babes would have grown up without knowing their father, his wife overburdened and resentful.

He wouldn't put someone he loved through such agony.

But if he survived his mission to warn King Baldwin, if he and his friends were never exonerated, if Victor one day grew weary of the Brotherhood's presence at the abbey, could he be someone's man? Someone's provider?

He imagined it for a long time, letting the well-behaved donkey drive the cart herself. From his cloudy childhood memories he constructed a scene of a northern meadow at the base of a snow-capped mountain, the fjord just visible through a break in the hills. He would build a cottage in that meadow with a barn attached to it for the few animals they would keep. He would break ground for a small food plot, perhaps some fruit trees as well. There would be plenty of fish in the nearby waterway, plenty of elk and bear in the mountains. In the winter, his wife would spin the wool from their sheep for his garments, and Roman would spend many hours before the fire with their children, teaching them to read Latin and to order numerals, and he would never send any of them away.

The warm season would mean work in the nearby villages, earning coin or goods to support his family. Two babes, three, six? Boys for certain, and girls, too, likely. In his mind, Roman was seated at a finely hewn table he'd built himself, the firelight flickering over the little faces leaning over the slate next to his. He somehow knew the snow outside this dream place was deep. He heard the crackle of the logs, the gentle hum of his wife as she worked her handicraft, and in his mind he raised his face to look at her.

It was not tightly coiffed white blond hair he saw, but a long, silky-looking fall of ebony beneath a sheer lavender shawl; long, tan arms holding forth the spindle as hammered gold bracelets danced and tinkled up to her elbows. The shawl moved as the dark-haired woman began to turn toward him, and her profile emerged.

“What are you looking at, my lord?” Isra asked.

The shuddering light was no longer cast by some dreamy fire but by the red evening sun stuttering through the trees on the right side of the road. When had Isra emerged from the cart bed, and how long had she been watching him? Roman's neck felt hot, as if she could somehow see his domestic imaginings.

He became intensely aware of his surroundings at once and nodded at the sight of the wall still some distance down the road. “We've reached Dubrovnik.”

“You must have fond memories of this place, you were smiling so when it came into view.”

“I've not been here before,” he admitted, the tingling of his neck intensifying. He couldn't very well explain to her that he'd been smiling at a daydream of being a simple cotter, with a wife who looked suspiciously like Isra. “Van Groen says it's half way to Constantinople, though.”

She gave him a confused look but did not press the subject as the caravan drew nearer to the city gates.

The sea stretched out beyond the rooflines, painted with the fiery sunset. No tall buildings interfered with the dreamy view save for the pair of citadels minding the port on the seaside corners of the wall and a single delicate church spire. While the road leading through the surrounding cluster of dwellings had been rough and pocked with holes, Roman now drove the donkey onto a finely paved stone thoroughfare, and the many hoof falls echoed in the valley created by the steep terrain behind and the mortared wall ahead.