Louise Allen - Virgin Slave, Barbarian King

Una was dropping clothes into a large bucket of steaming water. ‘Good day, Julia.’ She smiled. ‘You bring…so wasti? I do not know the word.’ She lifted a dripping garment out of the water.

‘Clothes? Washing?’ Una nodded. ‘No, thank you. I found hot water.’ It satisfied the other woman, who must have assumed she had left the laundry soaking in the tent. Julia smiled. ‘I can help you?’ She had no objection to assisting this friendly woman with the clear blue eyes and the swelling belly. She just had no intention of clearing up after two hulking males.

‘Thu hilpis.’ Una nodded agreement. ‘You could bring more water?’ She gestured to the yoke leaning against the tent wall.

‘Very well.’ Julia hooked on empty buckets and lifted the yoke. ‘Where from?’

‘The river is that way.’ Una pointed. ‘A very small river.’

Interested to see how far Smoke was prepared to let her go, Julia followed the direction the other woman had indicated. It led downhill and, as she went, she passed other women coming back, all carrying water. They stared, wide-eyed, at her clothing, but nodded and smiled when she greeted them. None of them showed any alarm at the wolf padding at her side—doubtless they all knew by now that Wulfric had acquired a female slave. How many of them understood her Latin, she had no idea, but Good morning probably sounded much the same to everyone, whatever the actual words used were.

At the bottom of the slope was the stream, its banks muddy and trampled. Someone had set stones as a makeshift hard standing and a small queue of women had built up, waiting patiently while their friends took it in turns to stand dry-shod while they dipped their buckets.

‘I’ll just see if there’s another spot,’ Julia said brightly to Smoke as she strolled off across the shoulder of the valley. She wandered along, trying to give the impression that she was interested only in the gaudy flash of a hoopoe flying past, or the spikes of wild flowers in the shade of bushes.

The first meander in the stream took them out of sight of both the watering place and any of the tents on the hill and there, straight as an arrow across the water, was a line of stepping stones, and on the opposite bank a deep grove of trees.

Now, all she had to do was to distract the wolf. There was a tree by the stones on her side. If she could just slip her girdle around Smoke’s neck and then tie him to the tree…Then there was a flurry of movement in the grass in front of them, a dozen white scuts tearing frantically away. ‘Look, Smoke, rabbits! Catch!’

The wolf was off from a standing start, terrifying death behind the desperate rabbits. Julia took to her heels, sliding and slipping down the slope, onto the first stepping stone. She jumped for the next, and the next. Almost across now. There was a splash to one side of her and Smoke pulled himself up out of the stream on the far bank. He trotted round to face her at the end of the line of stepping stones, head on one side, coat dripping.

Julia balanced, arms outstretched, the stone rocking treacherously under her sandaled feet. ‘You are supposed to be chasing rabbits,’ she said crossly. The wolf did not budge. ‘Oh, very well then, let’s go back and get the water for Una.’

‘Well? Is there a decision? What did Alaric say? My lord?’ Berig was hopping from one foot to another as Wulfric emerged from the Basilica where the king had been holding his Council. To one side a depressed-looking group of senators waited their turn for an audience with the invader. Wulfric eyed them curiously. Was one of them Julia’s father? Or her betrothed? They had dispensed with their eastern silks and embroideries and had dressed in pristine white tunics, sweltering under the great weight of their togas as though to emphasise their role and status as Roman patricians. Much good would it do them.

‘Lord?’

‘Berig, if Alaric wished you to be privy to his councils then he would invite you.’ Wulfric felt hot, irritable and sweaty. He violently disagreed with Alaric’s decision for the next stage of their journey and none of this had been helped by a tendency to think about Julia at inappropriate moments. He had been on his feet for most of the day, arguing his case for them to move north west, into Gaul, into the rich, well-watered lands that lay open and inviting to a farming people. But the king, backed by his inner circle, had other ideas and nothing Alaric and his supporters could say had swayed them.

Hilderic had come to stand with him, the rest of his kin clustering close. ‘They are wary of you, Alaric’s men,’ the older man had murmured, running a scarred hand through his beard. ‘He knows there are many who would follow you and he is not well.’

‘I am Alaric’s man,’ Wulfric had retorted, low-voiced. ‘His man until death.’

‘Quite,’ Hilderic said with a sly smile. ‘And until his death, of course. Look at yourself—look who stands at your back and your shoulder. Look at the gold you wear and the gold your kin have gained, following you. And then ask, who should the old men who stand at Alaric’s back fear when he has gone?’

It had shaken him. It shook him still. His ambition was to lead his kin, as now he did. Beyond that, he wanted to draw into alliance with them as many strong men as he could, for their mutual protection. To be acknowledged as a leader by warriors of Hilderic’s experience and standing was heady, but that was as far as his ambition had led him, despite the whispers that had sometimes come to his ears.

Now Hilderic, who spoke for most of the men in the loose alliance ranged with him, was hinting openly that he should bid for the throne when Alaric was gone. There was no harm in speculation about what would come, others would argue. Alaric’s health was uncertain, his temper and judgement unsettled. One day, he would no longer lead. One would be a fool not to be ready for that day.

Wulfric realised he was standing in the middle of the courtyard, hand on sword hilt, a scowl on his face. Poor Berig was visibly quaking.

‘We stay one more day. That is all I can tell you. The food is running out.’

‘But—will we fight the emperor? March on Ravenna?’

‘We stay one more day. When I can tell you what happens next, I will do so. Now, where are the horses?’

‘Here, lord.’ Subdued in his best clothes, Berig led the way to where an urchin was holding the reins. He tossed him a small coin and swung up into the saddle as Wulfric followed suit. ‘You look tired,’ he ventured as they rode out of the city.

‘I’ve been sitting on my backside in a hot room with a crowd of sweaty men all day. I’ve been up and down like a bucket in a well, talking and arguing, and my throat is raw. My feet ache worse than if I’d been on a two-day route march and in these clothes I feel like a trussed-up chicken. Otherwise I’m fine.’ He pulled irritably at the neck band of his best tunic.

‘We could wrestle?’ Berig suggested hopefully. ‘You promised you’d show me that throw you used on Rathar.’

Wulfric shaded his eyes and looked at where they had got to. Another league into camp. When he got there, there were meetings to hold, men to brief, the whole organisation of breaking camp to set in motion. And that confounded woman to infuriate his mind and inflame his body.

‘You’re on. See that grove of trees? Race you.’

They rode back into camp an hour later, battered and laughing, their good tunics slung over their saddle bows, their bare chests gleaming with sweat. Berig had a split lip, an interesting bruise coming up on his right bicep and an inch of skin missing from his left knuckles. Wulfric suspected he himself would have a black eye come the morning. He certainly had a bruise over his ribs and a wrenched finger. The boy was fast, and beginning to put on weight as his muscles developed. It would be time soon to take his sword practice seriously.