Eagle in the Snow: A Novel of General Maximus and Rome's Last Stand

“If I did so myself my motives would be open to misunderstanding.”

“So?” She looked puzzled.

“My centurions are experienced enough.”

“You would not dare. I am the daughter of a king.”

“The last time my people flogged a royal woman, her tribe rose against us. This time the tribe has risen without provocation, so the flogging is overdue. Are you being looked after properly?”

She was startled at the question. “Yes.”

“Have you any complaints?”

She laughed, bitterly. “Only the usual one of all prisoners. I want to be free.”

“You will be free on the day that your father gives me his assurance that no tribe will try to cross the river.”

“He will never do that.”

“That will be unlucky for you.”

“Why? Do the Romani still eat their prisoners?”

I laughed. “Not these days. Besides you are too skinny for our tastes.” I knew to what she was referring. Years before, two war leaders of the Franks, captured in battle, had been given to the wild beasts in the arena; and the story was a familiar one on both banks of the river.

She said in a low voice, “What will you do with me?”

“I could get a good price for you in the slave market at Treverorum.” I put my head on one side. “On the other hand, you would fetch more if I sent you south to Rome. They pay twenty solidii nowadays for an unskilled woman.” She flushed at the insult. I went on: “There is a demand for white-skinned girls there. And then again, you would fetch a better price still in Mauretania.” I paused. “Or I might keep you for myself. I could do with a woman in my house; and I shall need servants when I retire from the army to my villa.”

“If you did I would kill you when you were sleeping, and escape.”

I smiled. “I believe that you would.”

“But you—you would not dare to sell me. We are not at war so I cannot be a slave.”

“So you know our law, do you? You are a clever girl. Yet you are wrong. Yours is a race with whom we now have no friendship and no hospitality. If you capture a citizen of ours he is your slave, as you are mine.”

She was very white. She said in a whisper, “But there is a treaty, made by your general, Stilicho.”

“I agree. But you were taken in an action of war. Marcomir is an ally of ours. So you are still a slave for that reason.”

She was silent.

I said, “How many sisters have you?”

“Three.”

“Are you the eldest?”

“Yes.”

“One will not be missed over-much.”

She began to cry. I stepped forward. “There is no need. No harm will come to you if your father is sensible. I want you to write him a letter. I will have it written for you, and all you will have to do is to sign it.”

“He cannot read,” she muttered.

“There will be someone in his camp who can. Sign it and I will see that no harm comes to you.”

She cried again and swayed forward, sobbing, so that I was forced to hold her. I looked at the roof of the office.

I said, “There is nothing to worry about. Don’t cry, my child.”

She raised her face. “I will be your slave, if you wish.” She pressed her body against me, and her lips parted. She was young enough to be my daughter; but she was very beautiful, and I was still a man. I began to push her gently away. Then her arm moved from her cloak and I felt a terrible pain in my shoulder. I staggered back, shouted, and then half turned and fell across the table. The door burst open and the sentry ran in as she clawed at my face, trying to reach the dagger that was still inside me.

“Get a doctor,” I said. I tried to reach the dagger but it hurt too much. The room was full of people now; I was sitting on a stool, blood all over me; and the girl, a great bruise on her face where the sentry had hit her, was standing in a corner, her arms twisted behind her back; the sentry holding her as though he would like to cut her throat.

“You must lie down,” said someone.

“Get him to his bed.”

“What about that bitch?”

“Kill her,” said another voice.

“No,” I said faintly. A face loomed above me that I recognised. “Find out how she got the knife—punish them.”

“And the girl?” asked Aquila grimly.

I was sick and dizzy with pain. “Flog her,” I said.

“It’s not enough.”

“My orders,” I said.

It was a burning, hot day and I lay on my stomach and sweated, for the wound was deep and gave great pain. It would be a month before I could use that arm again properly. Out in the sun, the girl, her back lacerated, hung by her wrists from a wooden bar and moaned for water. She was lucky. If it had been a man I would have executed him.

Late that night when I was trying to sleep, Fabianus came and asked how I was.

“I shall live,” I said sourly. “She put it in at the wrong angle. Just like a woman—thank the gods.”

He said awkwardly, “Could we cut the girl down, sir? She’s in a very bad state.”

“So am I.”

“You said she wasn’t to die.”

“She won’t.”

“She might, sir.”

I glared at him. “Not that one. She tried to seduce me one moment and murder me the next. Girls like that don’t die so easily.”

He said quietly, “It was a severe beating. When they salted the wounds afterwards, she screamed and screamed.”