‘Who is he, your master?’ she said, passing the bowl back to him.
He spooned up the last leftover mouthful and fed it to her like a mother bird. ‘He is Quintus Tiberius Martial,’ he said, proudly rolling the words around his tongue. ‘Tribune of Equestrian rank—that’s quite high, you know—Provincial Procurator in the service of the Roman Emperor Septimus Severus. And before you ask me any more questions, young lady, you had better know that I am duty bound to report them to my master. I am the Tribune’s masseur, and I’ve been told to offer you my services, should you wish it.’
‘Thank you, Florian. It may be a little too soon for that.’
‘An apple, then?’ He pulled one out of his tunic where the spoon had come from, like a magician.
She shook her head, watching him unfurl, reminding her of a fern in spring.
‘It will rain tonight. Don’t worry about the canvas. It won’t leak.’ He looked round the wagon. ‘I’m impressed. You’ve been tidying up. We’ll make a handy slave out of you yet, I believe.’
‘That is one thing I shall never be, believe me,’ she said, severely.
‘Then try convincing the Tribune,’ he said, heading for the opening. ‘I think he’s rather set on the idea. But I told you that yesterday. Goodnight, Princess.’
She would like to have hurled the apple at his head, but a sudden wave of tiredness swept over her and it was all she could do to fall on to her pile of sheepskins and close her eyes against the murmurs and laughter outside.
The roar of rain upon canvas woke her. That, and the dim yellow glow inside the wagon, and the feeling that she was not alone. Instantly awake, her hand searched for the dagger that was always beside her. The habit died hard. It was not there.
‘Sit up,’ said a deep voice. ‘I need to talk to you.’
He was sitting on the chest, the smooth bronzed skin of his body almost aflame in the light from the lantern, his arms resting along his thighs, great shoulders hunched behind the head that hung low between them, his face turned in her direction. It was clear he’d been studying her for some time, for now he straightened up and stretched like a cat. He wore calf-length under-breeches of white linen, and his hair was damp-black as if the rain had caught him. And in the confined space of the wagon, he was much too close for comfort.
Grabbing at the blanket, Brighid pulled it to her chin and hauled herself up against the cushion. ‘I don’t wish to talk to you,’ she retorted, breathlessly.
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t. I need to talk to you,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, you do have some explaining to do. How long does this journey last? And when can I have my possessions returned?’
‘I don’t need to explain myself to slaves,’ he replied, looking her over again, measuring her up with his insolent eyes.
‘I am not a slave!’
‘Oh, don’t let’s hear all that again. Florian’s had enough of it and I don’t intend to hear it. The facts are, woman, that you have no choice in the matter. The Emperor has ordered me to take you off his hands and to do what I like with you; as far as I’m concerned, that means selling you on to the next slave merchant we meet on the way.’
‘You wouldn’t do that! No … you couldn’t!’ she cried.
‘I assure you, lass, I would and I can. I don’t have a place for high-and-mighty princesses in my line of work and I don’t intend you to spoil my holiday, either. Lindum will be the end of the line for you. Our next stop down the road. We’ll be there by this time tomorrow.’
The blood ran cold along Brighid’s arms. He wanted rid of her. She had seen the slave merchants and their shocking filthy tricks, the humiliated women, the wealthy leering buyers. Of all fates, that would be the most shaming. Her teeth chattered as she tried desperately to keep a tight hold on her dignity, not to show her stark fear. She was a chieftain’s daughter. She would not plead. Not even for this.
‘If the Emperor wanted me off his hands, Roman, then why did he have me taken in the first place? Does your Emperor not know what he wants, these days? Could he not have ransomed me?’
‘His men were too eager. It’s common enough. They thought he’d have a use for you. He doesn’t. Not for a woman of your rank whose death would be on his hands in a month or so, if you had your way. He’s not come all the way to Britain to make trouble, but to stop it. Nor is he interested in ransoms. Of what worth is a woman?’
At one time, she thought, she was worth plenty. Now, very little. With pride, she was about to tell him how the Dobunni tribe had wanted to buy her and how Helm and her father had discussed deep into the night how much gold, how many cows, pigs and sheep must change hands for her. But that was pointless, and in the past, and the less this man knew about her, the better. But she must do something, say something to make him keep her with him until they reached the south. ‘I would have thought, Roman, that as soon as my disappearance was discovered, the trouble the Emperor wishes to avoid will double or treble in the next week or two. Does that not concern you?’
‘Why should it? All the more reason why you should be out of the way as fast as possible. Has anyone come to find you? No messages?’
She did not need to answer when her face reflected her despair.
‘Tell me something,’ he said, leaning forwards again, glancing up at the sound of thunder. ‘Do all chieftains have their daughters taught to speak as the Romans do? You have a good accent. You’d fetch a good price as a noblewoman’s maid.’
‘The Briganti know that high-born women are most sought after by other tribes if they speak in the Roman tongue. It’s useful to them. We are not the barbarians you think us to be, Roman. My brothers and I were taught well.’
‘And have you been sought after?’ he asked, softly.
‘Yes.’
‘By whom? Are you married to him?’
‘No. You ask me too many questions, sir,’ she said, holding her burning cheek.
‘You may think so, but the question a slave merchant will ask me is whether you are a maid or not. Are you?’
Subconsciously, in a gesture of crushing fear, she drew her knees up to her chin and laid her cheek upon them, turning her burning face away from his scrutiny. ‘No one except my kin may ask me that,’ she whispered.
‘I can soon find out,’ he said.
‘No … no, please! I’ve had nothing to do with a man. It was never allowed. Other girls of the village, other women, but not me. I would be worthless, otherwise. Besides, there was no one.’ Her voice tailed away, her mind turning somersaults over the hurdles of pride versus safety. He needed to know how much she’d fetch on the market, not how much use she’d be to him personally, which is what she’d thought earlier. And now she would have to change his mind, offer him something to keep her with him all the way to the Dobunni territory. She would have to plead, if necessary. It was something she was unused to, except to the gods. ‘Give me more time,’ she said, ‘until I’m stronger. Until we get to wherever we’re going. I’ll keep well out of your way. I shall cause you no trouble.’
The rain drummed on the canvas as he said nothing in reply, until he straightened up again as if he’d come to a decision. ‘I wonder what you’d look like in Roman dress,’ he said, thoughtfully.
Hope flared briefly in Brighid’s breast. ‘I’d look like a Roman citizen,’ she said. ‘And I’d behave like one, if I thought my life depended on it. Is that what concerns you? My clothes? My appearance?’
‘Would you behave like one? I have