Ghost King (8 page)

'I will remember that,' Thuro told him, 'as I will remember your gallantry.' Alantric bowed and walked to his horse.

'Remember, Prince Thuro, never let your enemy read your eyes. Do not think of an attack - just do it!'

Thuro returned the bow and watched as the warrior mounted and rode from sight.

*

Prasamaccus followed Victorinus to the Alia stables where the young Roman ordered a chestnut gelding with three white fetlocks to be saddled for the Brigante. Having not genuinely believed he would be allowed to pick his own mount, Prasamaccus was therefore not disappointed with the beast. Victorinus mounted a black stallion of some seventeen hands and the two rode west along the wide Roman road outside Caerlyn. They skirted Eboracum and continued west for an hour until they came to the fortress town of Calcaria.

'My villa is beyond the next hill,' said Victorinus. 'We can rest there and bathe.'

Prasamaccus smiled dutifully and wondered what, under the sun, was a villa. Still, the sun was shining, his leg felt almost at ease and he was not yet hungry again. All in all, the Gods must be sleeping. A villa, it turned out, was a Roman name for a palace. White walls covered with vines, a garden, terrace steps and pretty maidens running to take the reins of their horses. Gorgeous young creatures - all with teeth.

He fought to look dignified, copying the solemn expression on Victorinus' swarthy face. Unfortunately he could not slide from the saddle with the Roman's grace, but even so he climbed down sedately and made every effort to keep his limp to the minimum. It surprised him not at all when no one laughed. Who would laugh at the guest of so important a chieftain? They moved inside and Prasamaccus looked around for evidence of a fire, but there was none. The mosaic floor depicted a hunting scene in glorious reds and blues, golds and greens. Beyond this was an arch, and here the two men were helped from their clothes and offered goblets of warmed wine. It seemed bland compared with the Water of Life distilled in the north, but even so Prasamaccus could feel its heat slipping through his veins.

Yet another room contained a deep pool and Prasamaccus gingerly followed the Roman into the warm water. Below the surface there were seats of stone and the Brigante leaned his head against the edge of the bath and closed his eyes. This, he thought, was the closest to paradise he had ever known. After some twenty minutes the Roman climbed from the water and Prasamaccus dutifully followed. They sat together on a long marble bench, saying nothing. Two young girls, one as black as night, came from the archway bearing bowls of oil. If the bath had been paradise, there was little left to describe the sensation that followed as the oil was softly rubbed into their skin and then scraped away with rounded knives of bone.

'Would you feel better for a massage?' asked Victorinus, as the girls moved away.

'Of course,' said Prasamaccus, wondering if one ate it or swam in it.

Victorinus led them through to a side-room where two tables were placed next to each other. The Roman stretched his lean, naked frame out on the first and Prasamaccus took the second. Two more girls entered and began to rub yet more oil into their bodies, but this they did not scrape off. Instead they kneaded the muscles of the upper back, stroking away knots of tension of which Prasamaccus was previously unaware. Slowly their hands moved down, and the men's shoulders were covered with warm white cloths. The Brigante sensed the girl's uncertainty as she reached his ruined leg. Her fingers floated over the skin like moths' wings and then she began, with skilful strokes, to ease the deep ache that was always with him. Her skill was beyond words and Prasamaccus felt himself slipping towards the sleep of the blessed. Finally the girls stepped back and two male servants approached with togas of white. Dressed in one of these Prasamaccus felt faintly ridiculous and not a little over-dressed. Yet another in an apparently interminable series of rooms followed. Here two divans were set alongside a table laden with fruit, cold meats and pastries. Prasamaccus waited while the Roman settled himself on a divan, leaning on his elbow, then the Brigante once more copied the pose.

'You are obviously a man of some breeding,' said Victorinus. 'I hope you will feel at home within my house.'

'Of course.'

'Your bravery in aiding us will not go unrewarded, though I can imagine your distress at being taken from your home and family must be great.'

Prasamaccus spread his hands and hoped his expression conveyed the right emotions - whatever they might be.

'As you no doubt know, there will be a war between the tribes that follow Eldared and our own forces. We will of course win, but the war will hamper our battles in the south against the Saxon and Jute. What I am saying is that it will be difficult to assist you in getting home. But you are welcome to stay.'

'Here in your villa?' asked Prasamaccus.

'Yes - though I don't doubt you would rather risk the perils of the road north. If that is the case, as I said, you must pick your own horse from the stable and I will assist you with supplies and coin.'

'Does Gwalchmai live here?'

'No. He is a soldier and lives in the barracks at Caerlyn. He has a woman there, I believe.'

'Ah, a woman. Yes.'

'How foolish of me!' said Victorinus. 'Any of the slaves who take your fancy, you may feel free to bed. I would recommend the Nubian, who will guarantee a good night's sleep. And now I must leave you. I have a meeting to attend at the castle but I will be back at around midnight. My man, Grephon, will show you to your room.'

Prasamaccus watched the Roman leave and then wolfed into the food. He was not hungry, but he had found it never paid to waste the opportunity to eat.

The servant Grephon approached silently, then cleared his throat. He watched as the Briton gorged himself, but kept his face carefully void of expression. If his master had chosen to bring this savage to the villa there was obviously good reason for it. At the very least the man must be a prince among the northern tribes and therefore, despite his obvious barbarism, would be treated as if he were a senator. Grephon was a life servant to the Quirina family, having served Victorinus' illustrious father for seven years in Rome; he ran the household with iron efficiency. He was a short man, stocky and bald - despite being only twenty-five - with round unblinking eyes, dark as sable. Originally he had cbme from Thrace, a boy slave brought into the Quirina household as a stable-boy.

His swift mind had brought him to the attention of Marcus Lintus, who had taken him into the household as a playmate for his son, Victorinus. As the years passed, Grephon's reputation grew. He was undeniably loyal, close-mouthed and with an eye for organisation. By the age of nineteen he was organising the household. When Marcus Lintus died four years ago, young Victorinus had asked Grephon to accompany him to Britain. He had not wished to come and could have refused, for he had become a freedman on the death of Marcus. But the Quirina family were rich and Grephon's future was assured with them, so with a heavy heart he had made the long journey through Gaul and across the sea to Dubris and up through the cursed countryside to the villa at Calcaria. Here he had staffed it and run it to perfection while Victorinus followed the High King as Primus Pilus, the first centurion to Aurelius' rag-bag auxiliaries. Grephon could not understand why a high-born Roman could concern himself with such a rabble.

He cleared his throat once more and this time the savage noticed him. Grephon bowed.

'Is there anything you desire, sir?' The man belched loudly. 'A woman?'

'Yes, sir. Do you have a choice in mind?' The Briton's pale blue eyes fixed on Grephon. 'No. You choose.'

'Very well, sir. Let me show you to your room and I will send someone up to you.'

Grephon moved slowly, aware of the guest's disability, and led him up a short stairway to a narrow corridor and an oak door. Beyond it was a wide bed, surrounded by velvet curtains. It was warm, though there was no fire. Prasa-maccus sat down on the bed as Grephon bowed and departed. Damned if he would send the Nubian to such as this, he decided. He walked briskly  to  the  kitchen  and  summoned  the German slave girl, Helga. She was short, with hair like flax and pale blue eyes devoid of passion. Her voice was guttural as she struggled with the language, and though she was good enough at heavy work none had so far seen fit to bed her. She was certainly not good enough to catch Victorinus' eye.

He explained her duties and was rewarded by a look close to fear in her eyes. She bowed her head and walked slowly towards the inner house. Grephon poured himself a goblet of fine wine and sipped it slowly, eyes closed, picturing the vineyards beyond the Tiber.

Helga climbed the stairs with a heavy heart. She had known this day would come and had dreaded it. Ever since being captured and raped by men of the Fourth Legion in her native homeland, she had lived with the secret fear of being abused once more. She had almost come to feel safe within this household, for the men were happily indifferent to her. Now she was being used to humour a crippled savage, a man whose deformity would have ensured his death in her own tribe.

She opened the door to the bedroom to see the British prince kneeling by a hot air vent and peering into the dark interior. He looked up and smiled but she did not respond. She walked to the bed and unfastened her simple green dress, a colour that did not match her eyes.

The Briton limped to the bed and sat down. 'What is your name?' 'Helga.'

He nodded. 'I am Prasamaccus.' He gently touched the soft skin of her face, then stood and struggled to free himself from the toga. Once naked, he slipped under the covers and invited her to join him. She did so and lay back across his arm. They stayed motionless for several minutes and then Prasamaccus, feeling her warmth against his body, drifted to sleep. Helga gently raised herself on one elbow, looking down into his face. It was slender and fine-boned, lacking cruelty. She could still feel the soft touch of his hand on her cheek. She had no idea what to do now. She had been told to make him happy, so that he could rest well. Now that he was resting, she should return to the kitchens. Yet if she did, they would question why she had returned so quickly; they would think he had sent her away and perhaps punish her. She settled down beside him and closed her eyes.

At dawn she awoke to feel a soft hand touching her body. She did not open her eyes and her heart began to hammer within her. The hand slid, so slowly, across her shoulder and down to cup her heavy breast. The thumb circled the nipple, then the touch moved on, up and over the curve of her hip. She opened her eyes and saw the Briton staring at her body, his face lost in a kind of wonderment. He saw that she was awake and flushed deep red, pulling the covers back over her. Then he lay down and moved his body more closely alongside her, softly kissing her brow, then her cheek and finally her lips. Almost without thinking she reached  up  and  curled  her  arm  over  his shoulder. He groaned . . . and she knew. In that instant she knew it all, as if she held Prasa-maccus' soul under her eyes.

For the first time in her life Helga knew the meaning of power. She could choose; to give, or not to give. The man beside her would accept her choice. Her mind flew back to the brutality of her captors, men she would like to have killed. But they were men unlike this one.

This man left her free to choose, not even understanding that he did so. She looked into his eyes once more and saw that they were wet with tears. Leaning forward she kissed each eye, then drew him to her.

And in giving freely, she received a greater gift.

Her memories of lust and cruelty dissolved and returned to the past devoid of the power ever to haunt her again.

*

For several days Victorinus rose early and returned late, seeing little of his house guest who spent most of the time locked in his room with the kitchen-maid. The Roman had weightier problems on his mind. The Fifth Legion was stationed at Calcaria, auxiliary militia who were allowed home in spring to see to their farms and their families. Now, with Eldared and his Selgovae and Novantae allies ready to invade, and the Saxon King Hengist preparing to ravage the south, there was no way these auxiliaries could be allowed to disband for two months. Tension was running high among the men, many of whom had not seen their wives since the previous September, and Victorinus feared a mutiny.

Aquila had asked him to help build morale by offering coin and salt to the men, but this had not been enough and desertions were increasing daily. The choices were limited. If they allowed the men home, Eboracum and the surrounding countryside would be defended by only one regular legion - five thousand men. Ranged against them would be a possible thirty thousand. Alternatively, they could recall a legion from the south, but the Gods knew how badly  the  general  Ambrosius  needed  men around Dubris and Londinium.

The third choice was to recruit and train a new militia, but this would be the same as sending children out against wolves. The Brigante and their vassal tribes were renowned warriors. Victorinus dismissed the Nubian slave, Oretia, and climbed from his bed. He dressed and made his way to the central room, where he found Prasamaccus sitting by the far window staring out over the moonlit southern hills.

'Good evening,' said Victorinus. 'How are you faring?'

'Well, thank you. You seem tired?' "There is much to do. Does Helga please you?'

'Yes, very much.'

Victorinus poured himself a goblet of watered wine. It was almost midnight and his eyes ached for the sleep he knew would evade him. It annoyed him that the Briton was still here after six days. He had only invited him so as to offset the rough treatment he had received in being gaoled, otherwise he would have placed him in the barracks with Gwalchmai. Now it looked as if he had a permanent house guest. The small fortress town was alive with rumours concerning the Brigante - all had him marked as a prince at the very least. Grephon had purchased some new clothes for him and these only added to the image: the softest cream wool edged with braid, leather troos decorated with silver discs, and fine riding-boots of softest doeskin.