Chained to the Barbarian. Carol Townend
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… Anna, get us out of here!’
In the apartment overlooking the Sea of Marmara, the young Varangian had called for a slave named Philip. Philip was wearing a short-sleeved tunic of bleached linen, as he escorted William to the bathhouse, William noticed many men in similar tunics, as well as a number of women wearing clothes made from the same undyed fabric. There must be hundreds of slaves here. But more to the point were the soldiers—guards were patrolling the corridors, not all of them Varangians. They were doubtless there to protect the Imperial family, but their presence must also keep the slaves in order.
William halted in the bathhouse doorway. It was empty and light was shafting down from a row of glazed windows set high in the walls. Instead of the bathtub he had been expecting, tiled steps led down to what was in effect a small pool, steam was rising from the surface of the water. A wooden bench stood at the poolside and linen drying cloths were draped over a rack.
‘Your shoes, if you please.’ The slave Philip gestured for William to remove his down-at-heel shoes.
As William kicked them off, he made another discovery. The floor tiles were warm. ‘Hypocaust,’ he murmured, flexing his toes. Mon Dieu, glazed windows, heated floor—what luxury!
The bathhouse walls were tiled as well as the floor and a geometric frieze ran round the walls. The air was perfumed with aromatic herbs. Philip picked up William’s embarrassingly shabby shoes and put them on the floor next to the bench, handling them as carefully as though they were the Emperor’s purple slippers.
‘Your belt, sir?’ Philip said, woodenly.
‘No need to call me “sir”, Philip,’ William said, amused at the way the man had handled his shoes. ‘My name is William.’
When Philip looked at William as though he were a madman, William realised no one had thought to tell him that he, too, was a slave. Not for long though …
‘William, my name is William.’
‘Yes, sir. I think I had better remove that bandage before you go into the water.’
William gave up and submitted, and Philip helped him undress. The man stared thoughtfully at his discoloured chest.
‘I can give you a body massage after your bath, sir. There is an ointment that will ease those bruises.’
‘Thank you, but that will not be necessary.’ William had a squire in Apulia, but the thought of being given a massage by this slave made him uncomfortable. Had it been Lady Anna, however … He grinned. The thought of Lady Anna’s hands smoothing away his bruises was much easier to entertain.
‘The water has been freshly drawn, sir.’ Philip waved at a tray of oils and soaps. ‘Do you care for me to bathe you?’
‘Lord, no, I can do that for myself.’ The water was blue and inviting. Hurriedly, William stepped in—it was blissfully warm.
‘Is the temperature to your taste?’
‘Perfect, thank you.’
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’
Water lapping at his waist, William discovered a ledge which formed an underwater seat. Lowering himself onto it, he reached for a block of soap. It smelled of rosemary and pine.
‘No, thank you, Philip, I have everything. I shall call if I need you.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Philip?’
‘Sir?’
‘I should like to take my time in here.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Bowing, Philip left the bathhouse, closing the door softly behind him.
William eyed the shadows on the tiled floor. Philip would probably give him half an hour before returning, but he couldn’t rely on it. He must be quick, he would be gone from the bathhouse long before Philip came to find him.
Dipping his head beneath the water, he soaped himself from top to tail, then rinsed off. He was dry and had pulled on his braies and hose before he checked the shadow again. It had scarcely moved. His arm gave a twinge, having been half-wrenched from its socket by the slave master, it needed support. Finding the discarded bandage, he attempted to replicate the bindings as Lady Anna had done them. He made something of a clumsy job of it, but it would have to do.
It was a pity about the lack of a tunic. Shrugging—with the Palace crawling with guards, William minded the lack of a sword far more than he minded the lack of a tunic—he slipped his feet into his shoes and crept to the door. One of the larger drying cloths would do as a cloak.
Easing the door open, he peered through the chink and caught the rumble of nearby voices. He thought he recognised Philip talking, but could not make out what he was saying, or who he was talking to.
Not that way. Quietly closing the door, he narrowed his eyes and looked up at the windows, judging the height. His gaze dropped to the wooden bench.
In a matter of moments, he had upended the bench, scrambled up it and reached the window …
William’s makeshift cloak must have passed muster, for once out of the bathhouse, he kept his head down and went through acres of Palace grounds without being questioned. Not that he saw many people, the courtyards, lawns and paths were largely empty. The sky was overcast, the air damp. A light rain was falling—it was more of a mist than rain—and there was a briny tang to the air. That last might have been his imagination, but William knew the sea was close, he had glimpsed it through the apartment windows.
Heart thudding, braced for the shout that would warn him that his disappearance from the bathhouse had been discovered, William skirted a number of columned buildings. Rather to his irritation, he found himself wondering if he might catch sight of a blue veil shot through with silver threads. He received vague impressions of marbled porticoes, of fountains playing over nymphs and dolphins. Exotic birds wandered the lawns, their long tails leaving dark lines in the wet grass, but there was no sighting of a lady-in-waiting in a blue gown.
He was fortunate that Lady Anna had bought him, it was undoubtedly easier escaping from her than it would have been escaping from the merchant. The merchant had wanted a drudge. He would have kept him chained and maltreated him to keep him docile. And if the lady with the painted face had won the bidding? William shuddered to think what use she might have had for him.
Hearing the whinny of a horse, William broke step. A low whitewashed building lay on his left hand, cheek by jowl with the Palace wall. A long-jawed dog was tied to a ring in the wall and a couple of muscled grooms idled by a water trough. This must be the Imperial Stables.
What are my chances of stealing a horse?
A boy emerged from the stable with a forkful of dirty hay. He tossed it on to the muck heap and looked questioningly at William. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning.’ No chance there. Nodding casually at the stable boy, William passed on.
Was this all the Palace? It was like a city! Lord, somehow he had to get through the wall. Where in hell was the nearest gate? William couldn’t ask, to do so would reveal a suspicious ignorance of the Palace, but if this went on, he was likely to find himself going round in circles. And the last thing William wanted was to find himself back where he had started, at the Boukoleon Palace.
Above him, the clouds were falling apart and the morning sun was breaking through. It was exactly what William needed. If the Great Palace was walled all around, surely it was reasonable to assume there would be more than one gate? He knew the Sea of Marmara lay to the south so … he would head north-east, there was bound to be a gate in the eastern wall.
Using the sun as his guide, William pressed on, hugging the side of a great hall, skirting one courtyard and another. He had no idea why the Palace was so quiet, but it was an unexpected blessing.
Some buildings looked to have been