riding out each bump without a care. He turned, reaching her on his hands and knees over the blankets, flopping by her side without ceremony. Then, taking a cushion, he thumped it and placed it behind her head, lifting her shoulders with his other arm. He was a slave. His touch did not matter. ‘Better?’ he said, cheekily. ‘Ready for some more milk?’
Brighid shook her head. ‘I can’t keep it down,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Some of it stays. There now. That’s better. Try to sleep again.’ Pulling the blanket over her, he tucked her feet in and continued his role as the nurse his master had declared, quite loudly, that he had no intention of being. To which Florian had replied, well out of range, that the Tribune would probably be as bad a nurse as he was a patient.
The departure from Eboracum had been delayed for an hour while the body of the little maid was hastily buried and flowers found to adorn her favourite shrine. There were prayers to be said, and small rituals to observe. After that they could spare no more time, because the Tribune had said, impatiently, they’d never reach their first stop before nightfall. Now, lying in the well-padded wagon while staring up at the flapping canvas cover, Brighid knew that the lass would never have survived the first mile.
Her conscience was not troubling her on that score. Death had been a release longed for by the maid since the birth of her baby only a few weeks ago. Fathered on the fourteen-year-old slave by Brighid’s own father, the baby had been a girl and of no use to the tribe; even before the maid had begun to recover from her fever, the village elders had taken it away to be exposed. It had broken the maid’s heart, but the chieftain preferred to sire males and his word was law. The mother had pined and weakened, and was barely starting to recover when a band of Roman soldiers attacked the village while the warriors were away fighting, setting fire to the thatches, killing those who fled and capturing Brighid and the maid as saleable goods for the Emperor’s delight.
He was not delighted, for the high-status woman was a liability and her maid was sick, and the rough capture had done her no good at all. Brighid had more than the usual knowledge of remedies for all kinds of ills, but with no access to her herbs and a maid determined to go to her ancestors, what kind of protest could any woman make except to refuse to eat? At the very least it gave her some control over her own life. And death. In charge of their welfare, the guard had at first tried to bully them into eating, but had soon discovered how aggressively defensive his prisoner could be. After that, there was nothing to be done—the barrack-block at Eboracum was not designed to house women.
Shapes moved across the wagon’s tail-board, horses tossing heads, riders crossing, a blur of buildings with red roof tops, the white town walls and the great arch of the gate. A mounted man rode up close to take a long look inside, his cloak thrown over one shoulder, his bare arms brown against a white tunic. His eyes narrowed against the dimness. Thick straight hair lifted in the wind, grown longer since leaving the army, his mouth unsmiling as his gaze met that of his new charge. For a space of time they tried to read however much, or little, the other would reveal, then he nodded and moved away, his cheeks tightening, accepting the inevitable with undisguised sourness.
‘Churl!’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to be here, either.’
But one good thing might yet come out of this, she thought, closing her eyes. They were heading south towards the territory of the Dobunni, the tribe to which Helm belonged, and though her knowledge of Britain’s geography was very limited, the name Aquae Sulis had been spoken often enough, while Helm was negotiating with her father, to convince her that the spa was in Dobunni country. So if, in fact, Helm had returned home believing that all his plans had fallen through, she would surely be able to send him a message that she was nearby, not out of his reach. If she was allowed some freedom, she might even be able to find him herself.
Naturally, she had not been allowed to get to know the young warrior at all well. Her thoughts on the matter were unimportant and of no consequence to the success of the agreement. Had she been an ordinary member of the tribe, she might have demanded some say in her future, might even have been allowed to live with a man of her choice for a trial year before taking the final step. Even then, she could divorce him if he proved disappointing. But Brighid was far from ordinary, more of a bargaining tool for her father, a woman of class who would bind tribes in mutual co-operation, and this she had always known. Nevertheless, that did not prevent her from taking an interest in the man who had travelled for days, even weeks, to buy her from her family and when on the few occasions she had been presented, always from a distance, she had taken in every detail as avidly as any woman on the verge of such a commitment.
She had been impresssed by what she saw, a brawny confident young man of her own height, clear of eye and tongue, bold of step and with a commanding manner that was always a sign of a future leader. There was little doubt that she could come to like him, eventually, though her two older brothers had reservations that counted for nothing. A young braggart, one of them had said in her hearing, and not the only fish in the sea for their high-born sister.
In the circumstances, it was disturbing to her that Helm had completely disappeared without getting a message of hope to her. Nor had her brothers made contact, or her father, either by direct representation or by more devious means. Slaves were open to bribery and a chieftain had his ways. The feeling of abandonment had grown daily, and now she was being left to her own devices with no inkling of what to expect from the man who thought he owned her, and not even a name to put to him. Yesterday, he had left her completely in the hands of women who were, apparently, the Empress’s own slaves.
Yesterday had been a blur of helplessness. Between bouts of sickness and fainting, she had been too weak to say what she needed, too impotent to protest at being handled, undressed, bathed, combed and re-clothed as if she were an infant. She had ceased to care when the slave called Florian installed himself as her new maid, telling her with great disrespect that she had better come down off her high horse because they were all slaves together, including her, except that he was indispensable and she was quite the opposite. Which did nothing for her peace of mind, however well meant.
They cleaned the little maid up, too, but she lapsed into a deep sleep and did not wake again, and by morning she was cold and still, and at peace with her loved ones. Brighid had wept bitterly for her, and again for the sweet infant they had both loved and lost. How many more losses would there be, she wondered, before a gain? Did she have anything more to lose?
She had slept, waking when the wagon bounced softly over grass and came to a halt with shouted commands all round and a dimness under the canvas that indicated dusk, overhanging trees and a stop for the night. Florian came to her, smiling as always. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Long sleep. No sickness. Now for something nourishing. Give me a few moments while they get the fires going. Need to make yourself comfortable? Right, here’s a pot. I’ll leave it to you. Keep it covered. Flies, you know.’ He grinned, scrabbling away and vaulting over the tailboard like an athlete.
Her head was clear, and she felt hunger for the first time in days.
Instructions followed to the letter, she stood up to take stock of her surroundings. She noticed that she was wearing a long tunic of unbleached linen and that all her own clothes were nowhere to be seen. Her hair had been replaited tidily except for wisps loosened by sleep, yet her neck, arms and hair were bare of ornament, another loss that generated a tidal wave of indignation and a different kind of bereavement. Those precious pieces meant everything to her, made for her alone, never worn by anyone else, and never a day passed without her wearing them. The awful feeling of vulnerability hit her like a physical pain.
Throwing a woollen shawl around her shoulders, she took tottering steps to reach the tail-board, determined to find out where they had put her property, already reciting in her head the form her inquisition would take. But from the far end of the wagon, she had not seen the two-man guard who stood at each side of
