Roman (23 page)

She turned back to the street, and to the flame thrower whose circle of spectators was large and well-lit by the score of torches standing at the ready to aid his performance. Bright light danced over the crowd and across the street to barely tease at the entrance of the alley.

All that bright, rippling light would turn Kahn's striped coat into exotic treasure.

Isra took a deep breath before spinning on her heel and marching toward the small cluster of folk now gathered around Roman.

“Ready Kahn's wagon to be moved,” she called out in a clear voice as she approached. “Pull it into the street at the end of the alley, but do not let down the walls.”

They stared at her as if she had just commanded them all to fly, but she only continued in her instruction.

“We have no time for a curtain, but we will draw a bigger crowd if they can gather around.”

“Mistress,” Dracus cautioned, “we've paid no tax to perform in the street. If we are cited—”

Isra didn't understand the intricacies of which Dracus spoke, and in the heat of the moment she didn't care. She only knew she must act immediately if she was to retain her nerve.

“We will pay whatever fine we incur,” she said, and then gestured to the man at the end of the alley, who appeared to have accidentally or otherwise set his hair on fire and was dunking his head in a nearby barrel to the delight of the crowd. “Think you Kahn and I are no better than that buffoon?”

“Isra,” Roman said quietly, “the last time you were in Kahn's cage, he attacked Fran. How will he react now, in this strange setting, with an unpredictable crowd? We are without even Zeus and the other men to ensure their distance.”

“Fran attacked
Kahn
. And I have no need of strong men,” she said. “I have a Roman soldier.” She held his gaze, forcing herself to be brave. “And I have faith in Kahn. Would that you have some in me.”

“I do have faith in you,” Roman insisted. “It's only—”

“We are part of this troupe,” she interrupted. And then, more quietly, “
I
am part of this troupe. Everyone works,” she added with a smile, echoing some of the first words Fran had spoken to her. “If you do not like it, take it up with Asa when next you see him.”

Dracus was looking back and forth between Isra's face and Roman's, and Isra could feel his anticipation. Finally, he blurted, “Well, boss?”

“Do whatever she asks,” he said at last.

Isra hesitated for only a heartbeat of time, afraid that if she spoke so much as a word of thanks her bravado would leave her. And so she strode toward the wagon, her heart pounding in her chest, her skin tingling.

She enlisted Delilah's help with her hair, and the woman made quick work of Isra's long tresses, producing a mass of thin plaits twisted with flowing, silken ribbons. In the bottom of a flat, shallow trunk beneath Asa's cot she found one of his short, fitted green tunics and slipped it on over her gown. The last two pieces of her costume were the black leather whip and the tiger's eye circlet given to her by Roman only hours before. She placed the bejeweled copper low on her head, bisecting her forehead, then turned and held out her arms for Delilah's inspection.

The woman's beard twitched as she considered Isra's costume. “It's a strange combination,” she admitted and then nodded her head. “I think it will be a great success.”

They left the wagon, and Isra saw right away the crowd that was already gathering on the thoroughfare at the end of the alley, curious about the contents of the painted wagon and about the large man dressed in the long tunic and belt, his leather hood lying over his shoulders where Lou perched regally. Together, man and bird paced in a circle around Kahn's wagon. Gunar was atop the fantastically painted cage, Asa's long staff in one hand and the stiff collar around his own neck, striding along the edges, his words rolling over the crowd.

“From the darkest corners of the jungles lining that great river, where even the bravest men dare not tread, comes the most exquisite pairing of beauty and terror ever seen by northern eyes.” Gunar glanced down the alley and saw Isra approaching, and then turned his attention back to the crowd while sweeping his arm behind him. “Brace yourselves for the most thrilling sight ever witnessed by man: Kahn the Terrible and his queen!”

Isra swept into the circle of light on the thoroughfare and felt the eyes upon her, but she gave herself no time to succumb to fear. She advanced, circling the wagon herself as she spoke, throwing her arms wide and gesturing with the leather whip.

“Many years ago, in a city so rich its streets were lined with gold and silver,” she called out in a robust voice, “there lived a great prince. He claimed great wealth and commanded powerful armies, but his most longed-for treasure was the heart of a poor young woman from a village under his rule.”

She stopped in her march and reversed direction as she noticed more and more people drawing near the wagon. Even the flame thrower himself had paused in his performance and now looked toward Isra with interest. Dracus and Helena and Nickle were circling the crowd with the baskets and Isra was encouraged by the tiny clinks she heard in the still night air.

“His station would not allow him to make the poor village girl his wife. Eventually she was married to a man of her class and soon had a family of her own. The great prince was heartbroken and swore he would have no other. Instead, he took to leaving his palace in the dark of night to stalk the jungle around his love's village, watching her as she tended her house and raised her children. The pain of departing from her grew greater with each rising of the sun, until he could no longer bear leaving the jungle even for a short time lest he miss catching a glimpse of the woman he loved.

“The prince soon became wild; his hair grew long and striped with the shadows of the thick forest, his teeth became great fangs with which he caught his own game to eat, and he soon developed a taste for raw flesh.” The crowd gasped and Isra reversed directions again. “The people of the city mourned the loss of their ruler. Many, many years later, the village woman's husband died, and as the prince was by all accounts no longer a prince but a feral creature, there was no law that said he could not now claim his love. So, one evening as dusk was settling over the village, he left the shadows of the jungle to approach his heart's desire as she drew water from the well.

“When the old woman looked up, she saw not the handsome young man she might have loved in her youth but a huge, vicious beast, creeping toward her in the low brush with growls and tossing of his great maned head.” Isra stopped and threw out her hands. “She screamed in terror,
‘No!
' and backed away from the beast, who followed the woman, trying to speak words of comfort: ‘It is I, my love; I've come for you at last.'”

Isra spun around and stalked in the other direction. “But the woman only heard terrible roars and, thinking she would soon be eaten, she dropped her water bucket and ran for her life toward the village, shouting for help.

“The prince, seeking to calm her fears, gave chase. He caught her quickly, reaching out his arms to embrace her, lowering his head for that first sweet kiss. But when she did not respond, the prince looked and saw that his love was dead, mauled by his long claws and sharp teeth.”

The crowd was tomb silent, and so Isra lowered her voice and stepped around Roman's solid form, nearly whispering to the crowd now pressed together in hushed expectation.

“And so the prince retreated back into the jungle, damned for eternity to live out his days as a tormented beast, never to be seen again.” She turned and walked toward the wagon, pulled herself up on the rear wheel. “
Until tonight
.” She looked up and saw that Gunar was already unfastening the latches at the top of the wooden walls, and then Isra looked over the crowd, where streams of people still trickled in from alleys and other parts of the city.

Word was spreading. The baskets were filling.

“Ladies and gentleman, Prince Kahn!” Isra pushed the edge of the front wall away as Gunar trotted along the roof, freeing the other three walls that crashed to the dirt, and the crowd gasped in delight.

Isra looked to her right and saw, as if she had trained him to do so, Kahn rising up on his haunches in the center of the cage, pawing the air with his fangs bared.

A shiver ran up her spine at his magnificence, at his power. A shiver of pride, and yes, a little fear.

Nickle appeared near her feet, bearing the wrapped portion of butchered meat she had procured for the tiger, and in the next moment, Gunar hopped down on the opposite rear wheel.

“Ready, mistress?” he asked in a low voice.

Isra nodded, and van Groen's squire opened the door enough for Isra to slip inside the cage. Again the crowd gasped, and Isra unfurled her whip.

“Hie, Kahn!” she called, and the crack split the air.

The tiger snarled and tossed his head, spittle flying from his whiskers.

She flicked the whip again. “Hie, Kahn! Come!” Her heart felt as though it would burst in her chest.

Then the tiger reared to his full height again, his scream pressing against Isra's eardrums. The wagon shook as he fell back to his front paws, and Isra knew it was enough. She flung the meat to the far end of the wagon, where Kahn chased it down and pounced on it. Isra backed quickly to the door, and in the next moment she was free, swinging herself around the end of the wagon on top of the wheel, one arm extended over the crowd.

“Prince Kahn!” she announced in a triumphant voice.

And Constantinople welcomed the menagerie at last.

R
oman sat on the floor of van Groen's wagon, watching Isra in the lantern light as she removed her tiger's eye crown and released her hair from the numerous plaits—twice as many as she had worn on her first performance in Constantinople three nights before. Her eyes were kohled and her cheeks rouged so artfully that he thought Fran herself would approve. The shape of Isra's face was sharper now, her eyes at a dramatic, dark slant.

Roman found her nearly irresistible.

They were in the very center of the city now and had held private performances for the mayor and his court and, tonight, a visiting emir and his entourage. Isra was the darling of the city, and the troupe now had enough coin to journey the entire way back to Austria without performing if they so desired. But because she was the darling, Roman feared Isra's continued presence in Constantinople, her spreading fame, was becoming more and more dangerous.

And so the time had come to discuss the future.

“I've spoken with Zeus,” he began. “We'll leave for Jerusalem on the morrow.”

Isra's hands slowed on the last of the ribbons and she looked to him. “As you wish.”

“It is unsafe for you here now; word is spreading,” he explained, although she had not asked for any explanation.

“I understand.” She carefully folded van Groen's familiar green tunic.

Roman ran his tongue along his teeth, buying himself a moment of time. “I don't want you to show Kahn again.”

Now her eyes flashed, her mouth thinned. But she only replied, “As you wish.”

Roman was frustrated. He had expected some sort of argument, at least a press for an explanation, and instead Isra was giving him curt obedience, almost as if she was angry with him.

“Do you not have anything to say?” he asked at last. “No disagreement with my decisions, no questions?”

“Yes, I have questions,” she said, placing the tunic in the trunk carefully before pushing it beneath the cot. “But they are nothing to do with leaving Constantinople.”

Now he was more confused. “Then what are you angry with me for?” he asked.

She looked up to him. “I do not wish to discuss it.”

“You have questions, but you won't ask them? That makes no sense, Isra.”

She turned around quickly. “It makes no sense? It makes no sense? I offered myself to you weeks ago and you refused me. I think you do not want me, and I accept your decision. But then you treat me like your woman, you protect me and care for me and buy me gifts; you lie with me at night and hold me in your arms. You kiss my face, my hands, you have my very future in your hands, and yet you let me linger, not making me yours in truth. Is that because you only plan to leave me behind? Or because you would regret taking me?”

The wagon was silent except for the quiet squeak-squeak of the lantern set swinging by her speech. Roman looked up at her and his frustration melted away.

“You're angry with me because we haven't made love?”

“No! I am angry with you because I do not know what I am to you!”

He held his hand up to her. “Come here,” he said.

She lifted her chin. “No. You answer me first.”

“All right,” he said and dropped his hand, unable to hide his smile. She was nearly unrecognizable from the woman he had found on the hillside at Melk.

“I will ask you to be mine,” he said, looking into her eyes.

“When?” she pressed. “The forty-third of Never?” Her accent trilled the words, making them so much more amusing coming from her mouth in anger.

He chuckled. “Sooner than that, I hope. But I can tell you one thing . . .” He held up his hand again and lifted his eyebrows to her in unspoken question. After a moment's hesitation she came to him and placed her fingers in his palm. He pulled her down onto his lap and cradled her against his chest.

“When we decide our future, it will not be in Asa van Groen's wagon. And it will not be until you feel you are truly free.”

She turned her head against his tunic to look up at him. “What do you mean?”

“You still feel beholden to me,” Roman explained. “And your past is yet between us. Not on my part but on yours. I am not your master or your keeper or your lord, and I don't ever wish to be.”

“But I l—”

He placed his finger over her lips and shook his head. “There are things in my heart that I would have you know. But I will not be free to speak them until we are finished with this business hanging over us.”

“After we find King Baldwin?”

“
If
we find King Baldwin,” he corrected. “We shall see how you feel about me then.”

“You are a terrible master,” she said and lay her head back down. “To deny me so. You say yourself that we don't even know if we will locate the king. He could be dead already, and then we would be more likely to find the forty-third of Never.”

Roman smiled at the frown in her voice and opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by a polite knock on the door of the wagon. He eased Isra aside, mindful to disguise the discomfort in his chausses, and leaned over to open the door.

“Boss?” Zeus asked, half his face flickering by the torch he held. “Some men requesting to speak with you.”

Roman glanced over Zeus's shoulder but could only make out the shadowy outline of a trio standing in the common, backlit by the few torches still alight by those members of the troupe loathe to retire from the festive atmosphere of Constantinople at night.

He looked back at Isra, who still wore a frown, though now it was tinged with worry.

“Lock the door behind me,” he said in a low voice. At her nod of understanding, he slid the dagger Valentine had given him back into its place beneath his belt and pulled himself from the wagon.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, looking to the silhouette of strangers.

“No problem,” the man in front replied, stepping toward Roman in a completely nonthreatening manner. As he continued speaking, Roman noted his heavy Frankish accent. “We only wish to commend you on your successful performance and extend to you an invitation on behalf of our lord to perform for his household and esteemed guests. We hope you will accept.”

Roman frowned. They could stay no longer in Constantinople; it had already been decided. “It is not the menagerie's habit to disappoint an eager patron, but we are moving on with the dawn.”

“Then let us attempt to persuade your direction,” the man said with a smile. “We have come to invite you to the Castle Kerak at the request of Raynald of Chatillon. Certainly you have heard of him.”

Roman's blood seemed to freeze in his veins. This was the lord who'd been accused of breaking Baldwin's truce with Saladin. Was it possible they would be led directly into the assassin's den?

“Not being of the soldiering ilk, I'm sorry to say I have not,” Roman lied. “It is possible Kerak is much farther south than we planned on traveling.”

“Perhaps it will sway you to know that my lord wishes your entertainment for none other than the king of Jerusalem himself,” the man rejoined. “Soldier or nay, everyone in this part of the world is familiar with Baldwin. The Leper is in poor health, and my lord wishes to bring joy and comfort to his dear ally. You will be paid handsomely for your performance, and given leave to advance through to Jerusalem if you so desire. The winter weather there is much more tolerable, I should advise you.”

“I'll need to speak with my men,” was all Roman would say, and he felt an odd trembling in his hands, usually steady and untouched by anxiety.

Roman marveled at the idea that a laugh could be accented. “That is noble of you,” the stranger allowed. “But our request is only a courtesy. My lord insists you accept. If you have any intentions whatsoever of traveling south of Constantinople and prefer to do so safely, perhaps you will quickly consider our
request
.”

“I see,” Roman said and thought of how van Groen would handle the situation. He gave a bow. “Certainly, we would be honored to entertain the king at Kerak.”

“
Bien
. We will send an escort to your party at dawn to lead you from the city. There will be no performances along the route for commoners; we must travel quickly. You will be compensated for any loss of income.
Adieu
.”

Roman watched the three men turn and depart the alley while Zeus stood at his side.

“I've got a bad feeling about this,” the strongman said.

“So do I, Zeus,” Roman said, clapping the man on the back and then turning toward the wagon once more, where Isra waited. “So do I.”

* * *

Despite the man's initial reluctance, traveling from Constantinople through the county of Antioch was an uneventful pleasure. Surrounded front and back by Raynald's soldiers ensured that the caravan was completely safe from thieves, and the camps at night were festive things, the fighting men intermingling with the troupe beneath warm, starry skies filled with music and laughter and plenty of drinking.

Isra felt layers of anxiety peeling off her like the woolen skirts she had discarded as the familiar scents of her homeland surrounded her and the horizon beckoned to her like a beloved acquaintance. They were going to a Christian stronghold, far from Damascus and from anyone who might know her. Although it caused a prickle at her spine to even think it, she had reason to believe now that Roman would soon accomplish his mission and he and his friends would be free.

As would she.

Would she then be his?

She watched him as he sat around the campfire, discussing things she had little interest in with a small group of soldiers, his expression intense in the midst of the conversation, but his posture relaxed, easy. Any concern that his true identity and connection to Chastellet would be discovered was soon relieved as the men in Raynald's company had not been in the Holy Land at the time and knew little about the trouble at the Templar fortress, which seemed to have happened ages ago to them in this place of constant strife. All the troupe referred to Roman as boss, and it had been assumed that Roman was nothing more than the leader of a band of performing misfits who traveled the map for coin.

Isra had handily excluded herself from scrutiny when her nationality was questioned by implying that Roman had purchased her from her master years ago. This had made the blond man frown fiercely at her as the soldiers congratulated him on his good sense, but to Isra's mind, the idea of Roman acquiring her wasn't entirely untrue. The night she had met him on the Damascus street had been the moment when her life had changed. When the first thoughts of rebellion had been tiny seeds planted in her mind, the first time she had deliberately disobeyed the rules of her life up to that point.

Her master's name had been fear, and now that master was gasping its last breaths.

She sat next to Roman as he drove the horses over the hard, bumpy road, and it was she who pointed out the long, rectangular shape of Kerak as it came into view. Sitting atop a great hill over the city, it seemed a forbidding place—stark and silent and enormous against the white sky at noon. But while Isra was disconcerted at the sight of the fortress, Roman was fascinated, pointing out to her details of its construction, naming the parts of the stronghold and their purposes. His knowledge of and obvious passion for building was evident, and she found herself proud of his intelligence and skill.

He craned his neck in all directions as they pulled through the first gatehouse into an enclosed bailey, the citadel itself still some distance away and behind another walled barrier. The caravan progressed slowly through the compound until they were in the inner bailey, and at last the long train of vehicles came to a stop.

The troupe set up the round in the bailey, directed by the stewards of the house, and Isra and Roman fell into their established routines of helping erect awnings, stake festive pennants, and adjust the spacing of the carts. The inhabitants of the compound paused to smile and point and whisper to their companions as they crossed the dirt en route on their various errands, or took a moment to lean over the long, smooth half walls of the verandas suspended on the side of the keep overhead and peer at the activity below.

The stable master had refused in no uncertain terms to house the troupe's ragged animals alongside the fine beasts of the lord or the garrison, so Roman and Zeus made do with a splintered trough in a corner of the bailey and piles of fodder brought by two young boys. Isra had to smile at the sight of the now tattered red sick flags ringing the makeshift corral, remembering that first camp she and Roman had made together.

“He's quite the handsome fellow, is he not?” Delilah said in a whispered giggle and nudged Isra's ribs with her wide, round elbow so that she staggered on her feet. “I fancied him a bit myself at first. Even if his face is oversmooth.”

Her cheeks warmed over her smile and she dropped her eyes, but she said nothing as she continued sorting Delilah's little beaded jewelry into the wooden display bins. There wasn't time for her to sit and stare after Roman; the steward had commanded that she would perform within the hour. It was much sooner than Isra had expected; she'd thought perhaps on the morrow, after everyone had had time to rest and Roman would have time to surreptitiously seek out the Christian king.

Isra dropped the last bag of carved bead rings into a little niche, continuing to smile to herself as she caught sight of the identical one she still wore, and then left the bearded woman with a wave, walking around the side of van Groen's wagon. There was just enough time for her to change into her costume and prepare for the performance. But when she raised her eyes across the compound she stopped short at the rear corner and pressed herself back against the wood.