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
