The Gladiator Prince (9 page)

Grabbing his forearm with one hand, Thane clapped the Brit’s shoulder with the other. “It will be my honor to owe you, Brennus. Are you sure of your convictions? If Abella finds out…”

“I resent that, Prince!” he declared with mock ferocity. “I am known far and wide for my clever imitation of you!” Swinging his arm wide, two of the other gladiators had to duck. “Ask anyone here.”

Tilting his head, Darweshi searched Brennus’ face. “The beard will have to go…”

Brennus, apparently realizing for the first time what exactly they were asking him to do, grabbed the three braids and pulled them away from Darweshi’s outstretched hand.

“Blood will flow, my friend, ere I lose these prides of mine.”

“I promise you,” said Thane, “if Abella has not cut off your head for imitating me in my absence, I will bring you back magic elixirs from Rome that will grow your precious prides back in less than a season. Agreed?”

Brennus glanced at the other laughing gladiators. “There may be head chopping?”

“Not for the best imposter in the land. The others will have your back. When do you fight next?” asked Darweshi.

“Not until the new year,
Doctores
. In Londinium.”

“That should give you ample time to grow back your prides, my friend.”

Darweshi slammed his stick on the hard ground and called for the end of the meeting. The familia left with Brennus leading them in a bawdy song about a young Briton wife.

When Thane dumped his cup into the dirt getting up to leave, Darweshi touched his shoulder to stop him and watched until the other men disappeared.

“You are certain of this?” he asked seriously.

“Very certain. Brennus will do well. Mind his playfulness in the arena; no one would think I could ever be so jolly.”

Darweshi nodded. “Have you thought about the markings?”

For the first time that night, Thane felt a twinge of foreboding. He had completely forgotten about the gladiatorial tattoos that graced his cheek, hands, and legs. Touching the one on his face, he took a step back. “I do not know…”

“Worry not, my friend,” the
Afrikan
replied with a deep barreling laugh. “Darweshi knows.”

From somewhere deep inside his elaborate
Afrikan
robe, he pulled a clay pot with a corked lid and placed it in Thane’s hands. “That is fat from lion mixed with the flowers of the wild poppy. Powerful magic. Dangerous weapon for him that holds it.” Then a sudden white grin split his face in two, and another rolling laugh filled the chamber. “Also used by my wives to paint their faces. I keep that to Darweshi, yes?”

Thane took the man’s arm. “I cannot begin to thank you for what you are doing. I promise…”

“Promise nothing,” Darweshi said holding up a coal black finger. “You return. That is good enough.” He gripped Thane by the shoulders. “Darweshi think this be your destiny, Briton Prince. If I do not see you again, I will sing your bravery to my children and have them sing it to their children, how the gladiator prince took on the mighty red dogs and made them howl in the night.”

“May the gods bless you, Darweshi.”

“And she who is all bless you, as well.”

He bowed low and swept from the room, leaving Thane behind to wonder.

He trusted the men of his familia completely. He would have lost his life many times, if it had not been for them. He wondered again how long they could hold the ruse. A week? A month? Before long, Abella was going to want audience with Thane for one thing or another.

Both Darweshi and Thane held the title of
primus palus
,
gladiatorial leaders. However, while Darweshi was the head
doctores
, Thane was in charge of all the new recruits and held the title of
doctores
secutorum
. While Brennus was very close in appearance to Thane, he had actually been trained as a
retiarius
, a net fighter. Darweshi seemed to think they could handle it. Since members of the familia were also the gladiatorial guards, they had little worries about the evenings; Abella never came to the
ludus
after dark. However, he often came down to watch the training. Thane was trusting that the men could handle this as well. If the Brit wore his helmet, they could keep up the disguise, as long as Abella did not look too closely. He took comfort in the fact that the
Lanista
had not said more than a word to him in almost nine months, and usually talked to Darweshi about the men.

Putting his fate in the company’s hands, Thane took the torch and headed for his chambers to grab the last of his provisions.

Chapter IX

Bahar rushed her through the woods in her nightgown, having thrown an old cloak over her shoulders that he had stolen from the line of slave clothes outside the house. Once Bahar accepted the inevitable, he had been a marvel at getting everything organized quickly. Phaedra knew he had made provisions long ago for a quick departure from Abella; it was something that Althea had drilled into both of them from very early on. Now, Phaedra was frightened; it was happening too quickly. She had had little time to think things through. Protesting that they needed to return to the house so she could get her things, Bahar only shook his head then got insistent.

She was thankful for the sandals she had on, but the bottom of her best linen
synthesis
was probably ruined. To make matters worse, she was famished; there had been no time for dinner in all the excitement, and Bahar would not let her stop in town on their way out. He had given her an apple, but it was small and tart, probably a native. It did nothing more than make her stomach cramp.

He threatened her with a gag if she did not stop complaining, so Phaedra tried to concentrate on making it through the town without anyone seeing them, dressed the way she was. It was very late, so there was no one on the streets, but she had no idea where Bahar was taking her.

When they passed through the city gates, the guards glanced at the young pair and went back to their game, since Bahar and Phaedra were leaving the city. Bahar steered her toward an old cottage along the main road and knocked on the door.

An orange light brightened beneath the door, and Phaedra could hear a man’s voice then a woman’s. The sound of a bolt sliding then the door screeching open sent shivers down Phaedra’s back, but the old man holding up a lantern seemed harmless enough. Winkles creased his bulbous cheeks and hanging jowls. His smell stung her eyes.

“Oh, it is you,” he stated gruffly. Bahar glanced behind them and pushed the man back through the door, closing it quickly when they were in.

Taking off his hood, he nodded to the old man. “I need my things.”

The hut stank of animal feces and garbage, making Phaedra put her fingers to her nose, but Bahar hit her hard with his elbow and she instantly lowered them. Apparently, they needed this man, whoever he was. Phaedra swallowed, clinging to the fabric of Bahar’s tunic.

Setting the lantern down on a rough table hacked from a stump, the man scurried an old woman through a primitive door then closed it. He then grunted and grabbed a heavier lantern from the wall, which he lit with a tallow candle.

“This way,” he wheezed pointing to another door at the back of the small home.

Once outside, Phaedra breathed a little easier but had to watch where she was stepping since the ground was littered with horse, sheep and goat droppings. She slipped more than once and immediately wished she had stayed home.

The man opened a large door of an out building and guided them inside.

Leather tack jingled from the ceiling, grazing their faces like spider webs as they moved forward. Chills scattered through Phaedra’s back whenever they touched her face. On the right wall, farming instruments hung in sharp suspended confusion intermixed with weapons, pots, and a jumble of tarnished tools. On the floor lay piles of rotten bags, moldy hay and bits of wagons, carts and chariots.

The smell of rotting food, rusting metal and decaying leather dried the inside of her nose and made her eyes water. On the left side of the wall was a long line of stalls, half occupied by horses. On the outside of each stall, snarled tackle and saddle pads had been stacked on a mount between them.

The old man guided them down to the fourth stall and placed the lamp on a rusted nail outside it. Carefully making his way inside, he disappeared into the shadows but reappeared a moment later with a black horse led by a rope tied around his neck.

“He is thin,” Bahar stated flatly, running his hands along the horse’s belly and taking the rope from the farmer’s hands.

“He has been fed,” the man assured him, pulling tack from the pile. “We have done the best we can, sir. If we had had more money…”

“Never mind.” Bahar yanked the thongs from the man’s hand and began to prepare the horse for the pad. Phaedra took the rope that Bahar handed her and pulled the horse’s head down to stroke it. He was filthy and had not seen the working side of a brush in weeks. She smacked her lips at him and caressed his snout while Bahar prepared him for the ride.

“We need food and drink, enough for a week,” he said to the farmer as he worked.

The old man shrugged and looked worried. “A week, sire? The misses and I have little for ourselves, let alone…”

Bahar dragged a jangling bag from his belt and tossed it to the man who immediately pulled it open. With a wide grin and more energy than his years, he turned on his heel and left them.

When he was out of earshot, Phaedra turned to her brother. She tried to keep the fear out of her voice with little success. “This is father’s horse. Do you know what the penalty for stealing it is?”

Bahar tightened a strap and did not look up. “The horse belongs to me. Father gave him to me when we returned from Rome.”

That brought her up a bit short. Abella had never given her a horse. A pang of jealousy made her tighten her grip on the rope. “Did he? You could have told me,” she added stiffly.

With a snort and a smile, Bahar got up from the floor and grabbed the worn pad from the stand. He hauled it up over the horse’s back and let it slide into place. “I am sorry, sister. I knew it would upset you. Besides, I am almost certain it was Thane’s idea. It was his guard that brought it to me.”

Phaedra patted the horse a little too quickly, and he tossed his head away from her. “I am not upset,” she said with dignity, calming the beast down with a hand.

Bahar threw another strap over the horse’s backside and reached under his legs to retrieve it. “I hope not,” he grunted squatting down to tie the strap. “He will undoubtedly save our lives, big sister. Hand me that tie.” He pointed to the mass, and Phaedra unlaced it from the top.

“So, what now?” she asked when she handed it to him. “Do you expect me to traipse across Britannia in my nightgown? Should we not ask the farmer for some clothes?”

“Ah!” Bahar exclaimed raising two fingers into the air. He got up and brushed his hands, then rushed by Phaedra and disappeared into the darkness at the back of the shed.

Amidst the sound of clanking, rustling, and general disorder, Bahar’s grunts and finally a hearty, “Ah-ha!” drifted back to her. The horse shook his head again and blew a wheat-laced breath into her face. Bahar reemerged into the light, carrying a large bundle in both arms. When he reached her, he dropped it to the ground and squatted down to untie it.

The material blossomed open to reveal clothes, amphorae, bedrolls and even a tent. He dug into the pile and pulled out a man’s wool tunic, a set of Briton breeches, a pair of sturdy sandals and an oiled cloak, also made of wool. Tossing them to Phaedra, he said, “Put those on before the farmer returns. They should keep you warm. Then pack up just what we will need for a light ride. We will have to move quickly.”

With her nose wrinkled, Phaedra slowly lifted the bundle and nearly wretched. “By the gods! These smell of dung.”

Pulling another set of clothes from the bundle for himself, Bahar tucked them under his arm and headed to the back of the shed. “You better hurry, sister. He will be back soon. Leave your nightgown here. You will not need it.”

“You expect me to…”

“Yes, I do. Now get dressed or I
will
let you traipse across the island in your nightgown. I am certain the prince would be very pleased.”

“Tyrant,” she murmured, taking off her cloak.

“Monster,” Bahar replied from the shadows.

The clothes proved somewhat problematic; Phaedra had never worn a man’s tunic; it was short, extremely light and clung to her modest parts, outlining them to perfection. The shoulders were so large she could hardly keep them in place. She missed the long layered tunics she had in her wardrobe.

To her dismay, there were no loincloths or breast bands. The leggings, or
puttees
as the Brits called them, proved to be almost impossible to put on. They were twice as large as any she had seen and wrapped not up to the knee, but up to the very top of her thighs. She tried twice to place the strange wide leather straps properly, but each time they fell off her legs into a bundle around her feet. On the third attempt, they fit well enough around each leg, though there was nothing to cover her backside or tender bits. Dreading going out into the cold like that, she realized she had little other choice. The long oiled cloak was heavy and stiff and would not lie down properly. After fussing with it, the heat of her body finally got it to behave. Reaching her knees, it went a long way to cover her perceived nakedness.