The Tea Machine (21 page)

It was nice to have someone to talk to sensibly amid her ever shifting sea of goats. And now that the newness was off her relationship with Volos, she found she could converse easily with him and several other members of what was becoming her household. She needed this human connection. Sophia was becoming fretful that Millicent and Sangfroid, and especially dear Gallo, had not yet rescued her. She hoped everyone was safe but would have preferred for them to come searching for her quicker. She itched to be home. Being abroad was far too foreign. But wherever it was that Hubert’s machine had deposited her, she knew it was best to stay close to her disembarkation point. That way, she would be easily located when the others eventually bothered to turn up. It was all very vexing.

“Please, lady of the tea, meet my grandson.” Volos introduced a teenage boy. “This is Heron. He is staying here with me until he gets word to join his father in Alexandria.”

“Egypt? How lovely. You will see the pyramids, Heron,” she said, and indicated the boy should sit beside her. His shy gaze fixed upon the pot boiling on the fire. The steam lifted the clay lid up and down with an irregular clatter. It seemed to fascinate him.

“Ah.” Sophia noticed his attention to the steaming pot. “The power of steam, Heron. See how the pressure builds up and lifts the lid? My fiancé, Hubert, did many wonderful things with steam pressure. Why, it could even be used to turn that spit.” She pointed to the current goat-on-a-spit. It had become a chief staple of her new diet, along with mountain greens stewed in lemon water. There was always some poor kitchen waif turning the spit handle while their shins roasted.

The boy’s eyes shimmered with intelligence. He had immediately understood her implication. Sophia concluded there was more going on in his head than most of the villagers combined.

“I like the steam, oh lady of the steam power,” he said, with a reverence worthy of his grandfather. Sophia was pleased, perhaps she should teach these people some rudimentary science? After all, the youth of the valley should learn how to improve the quality of life in this barren place. And it would certainly pass the time for her. What a delicious thing to tell Millicent when next they met. That would certainly stop her crowing about free education for the wastrels and the waifs she was always fretting over. Millicent could hardly preach to the converted, now could she?

“Tea?” Sophia offered generously, despite her dwindling supply. “We really do need to source more of the stuff.” She looked pointedly at Volos. Heron supped from his clay cup, savouring the unusual taste.

“We will go to China and India and get this for you, lady of the steam.” Volos slapped a hand on his heart. “We will we demand it in your name,” he proclaimed. “Ah. But what will we say?” he asked, a little uncertainly.

“Why, ask for tea, of course,” Sophia told him. “Loose leaf tea.”

“Looselea.” Volos tried to wrap his tongue around the words.

“Loose leaf,” Sophia corrected. “Ask for loose leaf.”

“For our lady, Looselea, goddess of tea, we get more tea.” He smiled in satisfaction. There was a valley full of men who would make it so. An army of acolytes.

“And steam power,” Heron added. “Our goddess of steam power,” he said shyly, and Sophia laughed gaily at their rustic whimsy.

CHAPTER 21

The wall proved less scalable
than Millicent had hoped. No matter how much she scrabbled for a foothold, she found it impossible, and she was soon dragged down into the courtyard. A furious Cybele towered over her.

“Is this how you repay my kindness?” She slapped Millicent across her unbruised cheek, though this time Millicent did not fall. Two burly slaves held her by her arms, keeping her upright despite her sagging knees. A crowd had gathered, and to the back of it, Jana stood wringing her hands with huge tears welling in her frightened eyes. Cassian and Belarus pushed to the fore, anxious to see all, eyes slick with malicious excitement.

“You are not worthy of the tea,” Cybele yelled. “A little chit from the colonies, I’ll have you whipped raw.”

“You’ll ruin her!” Cassian cried. “Let me take her off your hands. I’ll give you a fair price.”

“You?” Cybele turned her fury onto him, and he took a step back. “A fair price? You owe me your house, you idiot! You have nothing. Nothing.” Then her eyes narrowed, as a vicious thought occurred. “Actually, she is worth more than a whipping.” She gave Millicent an insolent, speculative stare. “In fact, a despoiled tea maid could be worth a lot of coin to the games master.” The crowd gasped, and Millicent heard a squeak of despair from Jana.

“Despoiled!” Millicent was outraged and struggled against the hands holding her. “You, who run a house of ill repute, dare to call me desp—”

“Yes. I think I will sell you to Master Kronos,” Cybele talked over her as if she hadn’t uttered a word. “It’s good marketing. The public needs to see a tea maid torn to shreds. They’ve been sullen lately. Slow to pay their taxes. This will cheer them up. I might even make it an annual thing.” Her idea of marketing worked; a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd.

“I’d rather death than stay at this filthy bordello. Good riddance to you, you violent, ham-fisted lady-lout.” Millicent’s deprecation earned her another blow. One that left her ears ringing.

“What a delicious idea.” Belarus cooed. “Two gold pieces says she’s disembowelled before the quarter bell. Takers?”

“Three for a beheading.” Someone in the crowd took him on.

“Shut up.” Cassian hissed at Belarus. “Cybele, you know I am waiting for money from Athens. Surely we can do a deal?”

“I’ve been waiting on your money for over a year, Cassian,” Cybele interrupted. “Is it coming from Athens by three-legged donkey?” Her joke earned Cassian the scornful laughter of her lackeys. With a satisfied smirk on her over-rouged face she signalled for Millicent to be dragged away. “Take her to the Belly, and book me a premier box for tomorrow’s games. I want to see this first hand. Ten gold on a beheading,” she told Belarus as she stomped back into the temple.

At least I’ve found the door.
Millicent tried to put on a brave, if bruised, face as she was dragged away. Jana’s fretful eyes told her this was trouble. If the bookmaking going on in the crowd was anything to go by, it was serious trouble.

Master Kronos smelled. His men smelled, too, but not as evilly as Kronos did. It was more than body odour and bad meat breath. It was more than the filthy stains on his uniform, or the greasy strings of hair that hung from his tonsured crown. It was as if he was decaying inwardly, and a sour and insidious stench seeped from every pore. Proximity to him was toxic. Not that Millicent had any intention of proximity. She reared backwards on introduction, swallowing down a rush of bile to her throat.

“Another prisoner for tomorrow’s games. This one came in with an invoice.” The soldier tossed her into a small guardroom. Kronos sat on a stool by a fire pit watching a game of dice. His men played for a prize of crusty old sandals.

“We got our lot already. Cells is crammed with felons and they’re for free.” He didn’t look up. He slouched like a poisonous toad, oily and odious, overseeing the game. “Why’d I pay for another one, ’eh?”

“This one’s a special delivery from the tea,” her escort said, and gave Millicent an unnecessary dig in the ribs with his spiked truncheon, no doubt hoping for her to squeal.

She squirmed away and gave him a hard look. After a quick hike through the night streets, Cybele’s slaves had carted her down to the arena. They had moved fast, as if embarrassed by their assignment, and loathed to draw attention to themselves. They delivered her to the Belly’s rear entrance with the greatest deference, along with a letter from Cybele; and with obvious relief, turned for home without a backwards glance.

The night watch officer had not been impressed to have an extra administrative duty dumped on him at this late hour. He muttered as he processed Millicent in double quick time, then ordered another guard to herd her down a maze of gloomy corridors to the cells, and to Kronos.

“The tea, ’eh?” That caught Kronos’s attention, and the guards at his feet stopped gambling long enough to look her over. “What have we ’ere, boys?” Kronos squinted at her. “A little urn, is it?”

Millicent did not like the sniggers that followed his remark, and she drew herself up to her full, if ineffectual, height.

“Most definitely not,” she said in her primmest voice. She knew precisely what being an urn meant, and had no truck with this ribaldry.

“Where will you put her, boss?” one of his men asked.

“I’ve no idea.” He scratched his stubbly chin and came over to inspect her. Millicent leaned as far from him as was possible, preferring to press back against the spiked truncheon. He was foul. “If the tea sent her over, you can bet she’ll cost a pretty penny. She ain’t any old dog meat.” The guard handed over Cybele’s letter, and Kronos unfolded the parchment and scanned its contents. Millicent could tell from the unfocussed flicker of his eyes that he could barely read. This was casual bravado before his men. Up close, as she unfortunately was, beads of sweat formed on his bald pate with the effort.

“Severus will be expecting something grand with an urn in the ring,” another guard said. They all pondered this, then Kronos sighed heavily.

“S’pose so.” He considered his options. “Put ’er with the Amazons for the meantime. That other lot will kill her if they get so much as a sniff. They’d crunch yer pelvic bones to dust, sweetheart,” he told Millicent with a leer, “and spit you out. And I got other animals to do that, not a hoard of barbarians from the provinces.”

“There’s already a book on how she tops it.” The soldier who brought her to Kronos was eager to gossip. “The big money’s on beheading.”

“Is it now?” Kronos looked interested at this. “What are the odds for eaten by beasts?”

The soldier shrugged. “Most reckon the barbarians will snuff her.”

Kronos sucked on his yellow teeth. “Bring ’er here.” He indicated they follow him down a passage that spiralled farther into the bowels of the building. He waited until they were several paces into the descent before bringing the guard up short.

“Tomorrow I want you go to the bookies and put all this,” he said quietly as he handed the soldier a bag of coins, “on her being eaten alive. See if you can squeeze out extra odds on ’em starting on her headfirst.”

“Wot, headfirst?” The guard repeated surprised.

“The biggest bugger will go for her first. Right for the throat, gets in the kill that way, see. Then the rest will rip out her guts.”

“There’s five to one odds it’ll be the guts first.” The young soldier smiled, fascinated at this insider information. Millicent was horrified. They were talking about her death as if she were not even there.

“Yeah. The first one pulls out her throat and chews on her face. Trust me, I see it all the time. Bet on her going headfirst.” Kronos tapped his nose. “Might as well earn a few denarii if there’s a book on.”

The soldier looked impressed and pocketed the purse. “You gonna arrange for her to go in with the beasts then?”

“Course I am. I’ll make it look legit though. You just get that whack on first thing tomorrow morning, right?”

“Right.”

“How can you bargain with people’s lives like that?” Millicent demanded. Kronos gripped her arm in a tight squeeze that cut short Millicent’s chastisement. “Ouch!”

“You need to see this, sweetheart.” He pulled her into a side passage. “The posh ones always need to see, so they understand.” He smiled coldly and winked at the soldier.

The smell of faeces and rotten flesh gagged Millicent more than his rough treatment ever could. To open her mouth in this vile air was to invite disease. She pulled the neck of her tunic to cover her nose and mouth. Her eyes stung with the astringency. On either side of the corridor were cells with walls almost up to her shoulder in height. They were topped with strong iron bars. From behind the bars came the cries of wild animals. Lions, bears, wolves—any predator she could think of—roared out in desperation. The sound rose to a deafening crescendo as they moved along the stone floors strewn with filthy straw. Dung was heaped on either side of a stagnant gully that failed to flush away the dirty water, blood, and urine. The overspill filmed the floor with a layer of putrid scum.

“Hesta’s tits! It stinks in here.” The soldier choked out, covering his mouth and nose with his hand.

Kronos laughed, unaffected by the stench. A cart rolled past pushed by a slave, naked save for a scrap of a loincloth. Sweat traced patterns in the dirt of his body. The cart he was pushing was nothing more than a high-sided wooden box on wheels, and whatever was in it stank. Bloated blowflies hovered lazily over the contents.

“Suppertime.” Kronos grinned and rubbed his hands together. “We’re in for a treat.” He freed a pitchfork tethered to the side of the cart and stood on the rim of a wheel to peer inside. Grunting with effort he poked about with this fork until, with a satisfied smack of his lips, he pulled out an unidentifiable hunk of rotting meat. It was thick with gristle and strings of white fat. With a practiced flick he pitched it into the nearest cage. The snarling and snapping from within rose to a crazed level. Millicent and the soldier shrank back. Kronos laughed at them, and again rummaged around in the cart for another chunk of meat.

“The trick is to keep ’em hungry but not weak. They have to perform after all,” he said, and skewered another solid lump to the end of his pitchfork. Millicent recoiled into the soldier, who in turn backed off as the foul meat swept inches past their faces before being thrust into the next cell. This was a long bony hank of meat covered with grey mottled flesh. Threads of sinew dangled from one end and at the other hung a human hand. If she hadn’t her back pressed against the soldier, Millicent would have slid to the floor in horror. Instead, the soldier pushed her aside, and vomited wetly into the overflowing gully at their feet. Kronos howled with laughter and climbed down off the cart.

“You are a wicked, wicked man.” Millicent gasped into the fabric covering her mouth. She fought back her tears and tried to mask the terror she knew he wanted to raise in her. She would not give this evil creature the pleasure of seeing her cry.

“I am the games master,” Kronos said. “I need to put on the best show possible for our divine lord on earth, Emperor Severus. Or I’ll be in that bleedin’ cart.” He tossed the pitchfork to the slave, who fumbled his unexpected catch and dropped it. Kronos scowled, then turned his attention back to Millicent.

“It ain’t easy dreaming up amusing new themes for that sadistic little godling.” Kronos warmed to his rant. “He wants art, and theatrics, and splendour beyond all imagining.” He flung his arms up in exasperation. “He wants an Olympics of gore and gut shredding death, with all the dramaticals of the Muses. He wants grandeur and artistry and manslaughter aplenty. And it’s
me
has to deliver it.” He thumbed his chest and leaned into Millicent’s partly covered face. “Them that go into the arena deserve to die. They fucked up and guess what, life is hard and no one gives a shit, not even the gods. And as for this.” He pointed over his shoulder to the cart. “These bastards were too lame, or stupid, or weak, to survive a bleedin’ blink in that arena. They’re not good enough to die in it. Therefore, they are not entertaining nor dramatical. They’re only use to me is as animal fodder. So, what do you want to be, little urn, ’eh? Fodder, or fighter? You can choose here and now, ’cos either way you’re gonna die.” He withdrew a dagger from his belt and toyed with the point, drawing a small bead of blood from his thumb. Millicent prayed he’d contract septicaemia before the end of the week.

The slave began to push his fodder cart past them when Kronos stopped him. “And where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

The slave looked down at his feet, afraid to meet Kronos’s eyes. “The fodder is getting low, and Master Milo wants me to go feed the herbivores next.”

“Herbivores? Herbivores!” Kronos slapped the slave around the head. “The bleedin’ cattle are the fodder, you harpy’s tit!”

“Not the cattle; the herb—” The slaves words stopped abruptly as he realized he had spoken out of turn and with no deference. It was too late to retract. Kronos plunged his dagger straight into the slave’s heart. His whole body jerked in shock. For an instant his stunned gaze locked with Millicent’s, and then he toppled towards the slurry. Kronos grabbed him before he hit the floor. With surprising strength he bundled the warm body up the high sides and into the cart.