Virgin Slave, Barbarian King. Louise Allen
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of the ancient Temple of Vesta. It seemed it was a prearranged meeting point, for the men already there crowded forward, clenched fists raised in salute.
Thirsty, stiff, hungry, almost beyond fear with sheer discomfort, Julia let herself lean against Berig’s back, let the noise wash over her, and sank into a half faint, half doze.
‘Here.’ Someone was shaking her shoulder. Wearily she raised her head. Wulfric was holding out a flask. ‘Drink, you must be thirsty.’
‘How can I? My hands are tied.’ The thought of water made her dry throat tighten with longing, but she refused to thank him.
Wulfric leaned forward and released one wrist. Julia took the flask and drank. It was watered wine, a poor thin red probably snatched from a tavern, but it went down like the finest vintage from the family vineyards. She handed it back with a stiff nod. He did not try and secure her wrist again and she realised as she steadied herself that the pommel of Berig’s knife was now within reach. She could snatch it, hold it to his ribs until they agreed to take her back, or…She let her free hand drift further round the boy’s side as though to secure her position.
‘Berig, move your knife.’ The boy shifted it round, out of her reach, and she glared furiously at the big man.
‘Do you have eyes in the back of your head?’
He grinned, the green eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘Of course, that is how I stay alive. That, and being able to read my enemy’s mind.’
Is that what I am? His enemy? What have I done to him to deserve this?
One of the groups of slaves trudged past and she looked down at them, seeing for the first time just what a mixture they were, the people who made life in the Empire run with the smooth efficiency of a water clock. Tall, sandy-haired, light-skinned Northerners, a few black faces, the wiry stature and deep olive skins of men from the Eastern Empire, all caught up and brought back here. What have they done to deserve it? These barbarians have learned from us and now we reap what we have sown.
‘Come.’ Wulfric raised his voice and heads turned. ‘Back to camp, we have done enough today. Alaric has called a council for tomorrow.’
It seemed Wulfric’s word carried weight. That had been an order, not a suggestion, and Julia watched to see who followed him. Fifty or so men, at a rough count, and many older than him by years, grizzled old veterans.
‘Who is he?’ she asked Berig, once they were away from the hubbub of the Forum. The wine, thin though it was, had revived her; to escape she needed knowledge, needed to understand her captor. ‘Who are all these men?’
‘Our kin and some of those who would ally with us. There are many more than this, of course.’ More? A private army, then.
‘Are you his…no, he is not old enough for you to be his son.’
‘I do not know the word.’ Berig wrestled with it. ‘My mother’s sister married the brother of his mother.’
‘A distant cousin?’ Julia suggested. ‘Why do you serve him?’
‘Cousin.’ The boy practised the word. ‘It is the custom. I serve him, he teaches me how to be a man, how to fight. In two years he will give me my sword.’
‘I see. But why do all these men follow him? They are older than he is, many of them.’
‘Because he is—ah, I do not know the word in Latin! King-worthy? Do you understand? He has the way of it, to lead.’
‘But you have a king. Alaric.’
‘He will not live for ever.’ The boy shrugged. ‘Wulfric is loyal, says Alaric is a good king, but many mutter against him. We have been wandering for years, fighting, waiting for your emperor to honour his word. There are some who say Alaric should have struck harder, sooner.’
Julia stared at the tall figure riding in front of them. Kingworthy. Just what sort of man was she now the chattel of? ‘What must a man do to be king-worthy?’
‘Be wise in Council, fierce in battle, kill the enemy, be cunning in strategy, a law-giver and judge. Be generous to his people and lead them to much gold.’
‘And Wulfric is all that?’
‘And more.’ The boy nodded fiercely, passionate in defence of his lord. ‘He is high in Alaric’s Council.’
‘But 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