A Noble Captive (5 page)

‘Find Helena and tell her the sibyl wishes to see her.’

Helena forced breath through her mouth. For a wild instant, she had hoped Aunt Flavia had spoken, that her prayers had been answered. But Galla’s coded message meant there were signs of improvement, a flicker of life. ‘Yes, I will go now. Please make sure the Roman stays here tonight. The lions are out and I have no desire to lose such an important tribute.’

Tullio watched Helena hurry away, her dark red cloak billowing slightly, revealing the hint of her slender figure and her sandals tapping on the smooth stone floor. The message had meant something. He was sure of that.

She intrigued him. A puzzle he felt he had to solve. There was much more to her than met the eye. There was a pull there he had not felt before. If the guard had not interrupted them, he would have kissed her red lips or at least tried.

He turned and saw the temple guard regarding him. His broad arms were folded across his chest. These were not the arms of someone unaccustomed to work. The knotted muscles stood out clearly. This was a bodyguard, an enforcer. Who did the sibyl need protection from?

Tullio tilted his head, going back over the conversation he had just had. There was something there, some clue. ‘Do all the priestess have a short little finger on their right hand?’

‘It is not a requirement.’ The guard’s voice sounded cautious.

‘I noticed Helena’s and wondered.’ Tullio considered how best to continue without alerting anyone from the island to his suspicions. Who exactly had been the priestess on the quayside and why was she there? His instincts told him that it was Helena, but she had denied it. ‘I like to know about different customs and rituals. What purpose does it serve?’

‘Helena lost that finger in the accident that killed her mother, the late sibyl.’

Tullio had remembered how the sibyl had held the lions steady at the quayside. The woman holding the reins had had a shortened little finger. ‘So the present sibyl has no shortened fingers?’

‘The sibyl is renowned for the beauty of her hands,’ the guard answered without hesitation. ‘They are without blemish.’

T
ime. She had no time.

Helena stared at the barely touched pile of the pyramid cakes laid out for her breakfast. She knew the honey-and-wheat-flake cakes were required eating after the morning ritual, but when did the sibyl get the time? She gulped down one or two morsels with a mouthful of cold mint tea and resumed her pacing of the apartment.

Today was going to be no better than yesterday.

There was no safe haven. Although Aunt Flavia had opened her eyes yesterday evening and patted Helena’s hand with her fragile fingers, her voice had not worked. Helena gave a brief explanation about their guests—nothing to cause alarm. Her aunt had nodded and mouthed the words ‘good’ and closed her eyes.

Last night, it had been enough, but this morning?

She crumbled a cake between her fingers. She was not going to think about last night, about the way sleep refused to come and how she kept remembering the feel of Tullio’s hands against her back.

Time was dripping drop by precious drop from the water-clock.

She had to concentrate on the words she’d use when she confronted him this morning. Galla had done her a favour by taking the medicine this morning, and she’d returned red-faced and stammering. And Helena refused to have Galla intimidated like that.

It was all too easy to imagine what had happened to her.

The tribune wouldn’t dare trying something here in her aunt’s apartments. Here, she could reassert her authority without being distracted by the breadth of his shoulders or the line of his mouth. Here, she’d remember who she was and her place in life.

She gave one last glance around. Everything about this room, from the carved wood furniture to the wall hangings, spoke of the sibyl’s power and prestige. It would give the correct impression—efficiency and control, not the quiet intimacy of the hospital wing at night.

The door to her aunt’s apartments gaped open, revealing the slight figure on the bed. A sudden lump formed in Helena’s throat.

‘You must get well, Aunt Flavia,’ Helena whispered. ‘The Lady Zenobia was at the morning ritual, and you know she never comes to anything but the most grand events. She’s plotting something and I don’t know what to do.’

Helena held her breath, waiting for a sign. The mention of Zenobia was sure to get a reaction. Aunt Flavia’s fraught relationship with Zenobia was legendary.

‘Please get well. The temple needs you.’ Helena paused. She had to try once more, and hope for a miracle. ‘I need you. I am not sure I can do this, that I am ready for the responsibility.’

She waited for as long as she dared, but heard only her aunt’s
soft breathing intermingled with the incessant dripping of the water-clock. Helena shut the door. There would be no miracle before the Roman arrived. She was the temple’s last defender.

The ornate box that held the sibyl’s mask and hands lay open and the light from the flickering oil lamps gave it an eerie otherworldly look. Helena rose to her feet and closed the lid with a decisive click. Her hand lingered on the carved frieze, her forefinger tracing Kybele’s face.

Did Kybele truly talk to Aunt Flavia?

The goddess certainly did not talk to her. The only thing she felt when wearing the mask was its cold heaviness.

The sound of tramping feet in the corridor brought her back to the present.

The Roman had arrived.

Hurriedly she stood up and smoothed her gown, Nothing to show distress. Calm, cool, collected. She was in charge, last evening a distant memory.

‘My lady? The tribune waits outside.’ A temple guard entered the room.

‘Very good.’ Helena again ran her hands down her gown and attempted to quell the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach. She tried to picture how the interview would go, what she would say and how she would say it. She would make her authority felt.

‘The tribune desires to speak with the sibyl if at all possible after he has had this interview with you,’ the guard informed her.

‘The sibyl is busy and wishes to remain in seclusion for the rest of the day.’ Helena gave her standard response. She had given it so often lately that she began to feel like Aunt Zenobia’s mynah bird, echoing the last phrase time and time again.

‘I already told him she receives petitions in the evening. It is tradition.’

Helena resisted the temptation to curse. Her diversionary tactic of last night had not worked. She had to think of something else, some concrete reason why Tullio should not have a private interview with Aunt Flavia. The guard regarded her with a quizzical expression.

‘What the Roman asks is impossible.’ She ran her hands a third time down her gown. ‘I will inform him of that. When the sibyl deems the time is right, she will grant him an audience, but she must be allowed to attend to her goddess-appointed tasks.’

‘That is a pity,’ a low-timbred voice said, reminding Helena of a cool waterfall tumbling over rocks to a deep pool and sending a glorious thrill down her spine. ‘I did so wish to thank her for yesterday morning at the quayside and for the medicines. Food and a bath can make you believe the gods are smiling. It has done wonders for my men.’

‘I’m pleased our humble facilities meet with your approval.’

She glanced down at her sandals and gave her mind a shake. She wasn’t going to think about such things. She was about to prove to herself that she was capable of ignoring this attraction. She could do it if she tried. Helena’s breath stuck in her throat. He was even more handsome today than yesterday. Her eyes travelled from his sandalled feet up his bare legs and short tunic to his broad shoulders, and finally to his face, which was framed in short dark curls. There was a look of fierce determination in his eyes, despite the smile on his lips.

Romans were supposed to be monsters, but this one made her senses tingle. His quizzical expression intensified. Helena drew a deep breath and launched into her prepared speech. She explained about the island’s history of hospitality towards strangers.

‘We discussed the need for your soldiers to act as guests,’ she said, feeling her stomach start to tighten as she came to the difficult portion.

‘Guests.’ Tullio broke in. He was careful to say the word without rancour or irony. ‘I hope we behave as such.’

He moved further into the room. It was not a formal audience chamber, but a room that looked as if it were used for the day-to-day running of the temple. Scrolls and tablets lay piled on the floor and in the centre of the room on a pedestal was an ornately carved wooden box. The golden mask? After last night’s conversation with the guard, he would be prepared to wager several estates that Helena was the woman underneath yesterday’s mask.

His eyes searched Helena for a sign of weakness. Nothing out of place. No stray locks of hair tucked behind her ear. Every fold of her gown hung perfectly. Her makeup had been applied with a precise hand. Her gold earrings matched the slender gold chain about her neck. The perfect administrator. The warm woman he had held briefly in his arms had vanished.

‘Hospitality is the defining mark of a civilised society,’ he said.

‘Do not take our hospitality for granted, Tribune.’ Her eyes flashed green fire. ‘You are here and you are alive.’

‘For that I am grateful, Priestess. It is my sincere wish some day Rome may properly express its gratitude.’

Tullio watched to see how she’d react to his deliberate choice of words. Woman or statue? One of the first lessons he had learnt from his drill instructor was: your opponent’s true state of mind will be revealed in little movements.

Her fingers plucked at the folds of her simple white gown and her tongue flicked over her lips. A faint frown showed between her eyebrows, allowing Tullio a glimpse of the woman. The strain in his shoulders eased.

‘Call me Helena, please.’ She made a small gesture with her hand. ‘The only priestess is the sibyl. I am, as I explained yesterday, merely her assistant. Pray remember that.’

‘Helena, then.’ Tullio rolled her name on his tongue, allowed his eyes to roam over her curves, but kept his mind alert. ‘Is there some reason in particular you have called me here? Or did you wish to pass the time of day with me? Continue last night’s interrupted conversation?’

The colour rose higher in her cheeks, until they matched the delicate pink in her lips.

He lifted an eyebrow and invited her to continue the flirtation. It had to be the reason she had summoned him. A bold move. He felt his body respond to her nearness, and wondered if he risked taking her into his arms. A little physical persuasion perhaps. His smile grew wider. He took a step closer.

Her gaze moved to the desk and she picked up a stylus, toyed with it. Then she placed it down and turned back towards him. The administrator was back, and the woman in full retreat. Silently, Tullio cursed his action. He had moved too quickly. The quarry had flown.

‘I have called you here because my maid encountered disrespectful remarks when she delivered the medicine this morning.’ Each word spoken with care and precision. ‘If you Romans wish to be treated as guests, you must obey the rules of hospitality.’

‘I spent the night by Rufus’s side and had only just returned to my men when I was summoned.’ He held out his hands, palms upwards, but felt the muscles in his jaw clench.

Who had transgressed? Quintus?

The centurion had seemed pleased with himself to the point of humming a tune. Tullio had not had the time to pursue it before the guard had arrived. But after what happened yes
terday, Quintus would not risk further upsetting their hosts. Even he would not be so bold and reckless as to disobey a superior officer. His medal for bravery would not protect him.

‘I have no knowledge of this. When and where did it take place?’

‘Are you denying it happened?’ Her earrings started to swing, brushing the top of her gown. The ease between them vanishing as surely as a smoke curl from a brazier. ‘How typically Roman.’

‘Tell me which soldier and he shall be punished. I have no wish to discipline the wrong man.’ Perhaps there was a misunderstanding. Perhaps the maid was not used to the rough banter of soldiers. But he refused to condemn Quintus without knowing the full story. He had to be certain. ‘Wrongful punishment will only inflame the situation.’

‘Inappropriate comments were made to my maid. That is all you need to know.’ Her eyes were green ice. ‘She was visibly distressed when she returned.’

Tullio drummed his fingers against his thigh. Helena was not going to meet him halfway.

‘Some light-hearted banter may have been exchanged. Nothing serious and certainly nothing designed to offend. Much as we spoke last night.’ Tullio forced his voice to sound light, but every muscle was alert. When he returned to their quarters, he’d give all the soldiers a dressing down. They had to behave properly. The gods had given him this chance to save their lives. None of his men should jeopardise it. ‘These are soldiers, not silver-tongued diplomats.’

He waited and watched. Helena pressed her lips together until they were a firm white line. Her eyes became like hard green marble.

He resisted the temptation to run his hand through his
hair as he silently cursed whichever solider had tried to flirt with the maid.

‘It is not up to me to pinpoint the troublemaker, merely to inform you that I refuse to have the servants of this temple molested in that manner.’

‘I apologise unreservedly if anything my men or I have done or said caused distress.’ He made a bow.

‘I need more than simple words. Words are easily spoken.’ Her eyes looked directly at him, challenging him. ‘Unlike you Romans, we expect courteous behaviour here. I assume your men are capable of it. You will do something about this and give me your promise that it will not recur. It must not!’

Tullio managed to choke angry words back. The arrogance of the woman. How dare she preach to him about how he should discipline his men! He had apologised. That should be enough.

‘And I refuse to punish innocent men on a vague feeling. I have explained it is most likely a misunderstanding. I will speak to my men, but these things can happen.’

‘We are at an impasse, I see.’ Helena walked over to a table, picked up a sheaf of tablets and rapped them sharply against the wood. The line between her eyebrows deepened. ‘There is little point in continuing this conversation. My word that one of my maids was upset should have been enough for you.’

There was no mistaking the threat in her underlying words. Tullio regretted he had not chosen more diplomatic words, but, by Jupiter’s thunderbolt, his men were important and he refused to punish them on a whim.

‘I mean you no harm,’ he said quietly, making sure his voice held nothing of the parade ground. ‘I will speak to my men, but I need to know what bothered the woman, so I can tell them specifically. These are soldiers, not courtiers. If their
language is rough, I can only apologise. We are grateful to be out of that hulk. The sibyl—’

Helena lifted her eyes and met his gaze. A flash of fear shot through the green. What had caused it?

‘Tribune, you must understand that your position and that of your men is somewhat unique. I will not have temple routine disrupted…’

‘Only pirates have something to fear from me.’

He took a step closer to her, watching for any sign that she understood, that he had reached the woman again. Her hand went to her hair and loosening a single curl at the back of her neck, twisted it around her finger. Her lips softened. His hand sought the reassurance of his sword belt and encountered thin air. The time had come, he judged. ‘Allow me to do something in return for the sibyl.’

‘You used the ritual words. The sibyl needs no thanks,’ Helena said, staring straight ahead and not at him. She had to ignore the way his black hair curled at the temples. ‘It is not my place to question the rules.’

He took a step closer. If she took a deep breath, her breasts would brush his chest. His masculine scent tickled Helena’s nose, holding her. She wanted
him
to hold her. She wanted him to look at her with his dark eyes. The way he done when he first came into the room. Her tongue flicked over dry lips.