The Gladiator Prince (12 page)

A dark baritone voice rattled from the cloak. “I carry no gold, stranger, nor anything else of value.” His accent was thickly Greek, but his Latin flawless. “If you are up for a trade, I may be able to help you. What is your business?”

Thane held his ground, his hand on the hilt of the
gladius
. He turned his head scanning the wagon, but was otherwise still. “I am a traveler, bound for Londinium and not a robber. I am called Teutorigos, and I fare from
Corieltauvi
. What is your name?”

The man sat up straight, wrapping the reins around one wrist, while twisted fingers of his other hand adjusted them. “I am called Adrastos.” He spat onto the road over his shoulder. “A traveling healer, though I have wares for trade or sale.”

“Adrastos,” Thane repeated then relaxed his stance, taking his hand off the sword. “You are early. I did not expect you until tomorrow night.”

The man pushed his hood back and laughed. “I thought it might be you, Prince.”

From her hiding in the brush, Phaedra thought his words sounded slurred, but his appearance immediately reminded her of Althea, her Greek servant from years before. His hair was gray and grizzled, falling in waves to the back of his neck and mingling with a long dirty beard at the front. One gray eye had a scar running over it, making it squint in the lantern light. Even sitting, he seemed very tall, though the hunch of his back made him appear smaller. The other gray eye was drooped and not bright. A large hooked nose dominated his face making the thick lips beneath it pinched, while deep hanging wrinkles framed his eyes and wilted his cheeks. Phaedra noticed a slight sway to the man, as if he had problems with this balance.

Apparently, Thane noticed it too. “Are you sick, old man?”

“Me?” he replied with a flourish. “Never better.”

He pulled a round clay flask from inside the cloak where it got stuck for a moment in the lining. With a growl, he yanked it free and took the cork that sealed it into his teeth. The stopper popped out and hung on a piece of leather secured on the neck of the bottle, hitting him in the face when he turned the flask upside down over his mouth. A small droplet of liquid fell between his open lips and the man swore, putting the cork back with difficulty and returning it to his cloak. “Well, I have been better. Come!”

Tying the reins clumsily to the armrest on one side, Adrastos struggled to get to his feet and almost toppled onto the ox, catching himself at the last second on the arm of the bench. He climbed down, swaying in the road when he reached it and held up his index finger to Thane. “A drink! We shall drink to our partnership!”

“No,” Thane growled to the Greek’s back. Adrastos turned abruptly, his face comically sour.

“No?”

“No. I think you have had more than your fill for one night.” Thane crossed to the inebriated man and sniffed him. “Probably your fill for several nights,” he said angrily. “I take it you have a cot in the wagon.”

The man scrunched up his face and peered carefully at Thane. “A cot? Yes, I have a cot. Do you want to lie down?”

With a deep sigh, Thane grabbed the man’s arm and stirred him to the back of the wagon. Even hunched, Adrastos was several inches taller than the gladiator and twice his girth, but he went without a struggle. When they got there, Thane leaned the man against the wagon, apparently not convinced Adrastos was capable of standing on his own feet for long, and pulled open a small door at the back.

The strong smell of spices filled the air, making Phaedra gasp from behind the bush. They soaked her senses, making her giddy:
garum
,
silphion
, cinnamon, cassia, cardamom, ginger and turmeric. Mingled with those aromas was the scent of angelica, thyme, coriander, speedwell, fennel, hyssop, mint, aniseed, rosemary, tansy, violets and even wormwood.

Years disappeared. An old memory overwhelmed Phaedra; she closed her eyes drinking in the familiarity like aged wine. The old slave’s chamber sparked inside her head: small and hot, lighted only by a fitful tallow candle in one corner, filled with aromas that conjured forgotten memories. Her middle cramped around a craving, a wish that she could once again hear the soft words of the midwife.

Remember, my child, mixed carefully this potion will cure. Mixed poorly, it will kill. Be mindful of your teachings, little Phae, and your vows; one day they will both be put to the test.

She opened her eyes and glanced at Bahar who stared intently on the scene in front of them. A chill went up her spine, and she hugged the cloak around her shoulders.
…they will both be put to the test.

She wondered again how much Bahar guessed about her training with Althea; all those dark nights studying under the strange Greek woman: midwifery, healing, anatomy and even reading in Greek, Latin and Etruscan. Her father would have burned them both, but Phaedra had kept her tongue, never breathing a word to anyone.

When Althea died three winters ago, Phaedra quietly continued her work, at least until she traveled to Rome to marry. There her life had changed forever, but she missed the quiet times with Althea and often longed to complete her studies. Phaedra knew only a fraction of what Althea could teach her.

She turned her attention back to the wagon where Thane was pulling himself through the door and the Greek started humming a ditty Phaedra did not recognize. He had closed his eyes, and a smile sparked on that gnarled face, making it almost comic.

For some reason, Phaedra liked the old man, but she did not know why. She hated drunks and distrusted riff raff of any kind. It must have been the smell of the herbs. Either the man was a healer or sold wares to them, she was not certain which. There was something about his face, a kind of sad intelligence that stood out even under the smile and inebriation.

He opened his eyes and seemed to stare right at her. She instinctively crawled further into the shadows behind her, and the man laughed.

Out of the back of the wagon, three or four amphorae flew several feet through the air before landing on the road and exploding into splashing red bits of clay. The scent of wine overwhelmed the smell of herbs and spices in an instant.

At the first dull crash, Adrastos, startled, lifted his bulk off the wagon and whirled around with alacrity.

“What…what…” he sputtered, rushing to the back of the wagon. Another load of clay vessels almost hit him on the head, but he stepped back in time and watched in horror as those too broke against the road.

“Are you mad?” he screamed at the door. “Stop! Stop instantly!”

Thane appeared at the door, his arms loaded with several small clay corked flasks. He ignored Adrastos’ outburst and threw each container, one by one, onto the growing pile of wine-soaked shards to the side of the road.

The old man rushed to the back of the wagon in a capricious dance trying to rescue his precious cargo, but each bottle soared well above his head and landed with a crash onto the road.

When Thane was done, Adrastos sank to his knees, his mouth open and his eyes filled with tears. “My wine,” he muttered, “my beautiful wine.”

Thane jumped out of the wagon and brushed his hands, then did something that Phaedra did not expect. He crossed to the Greek, put a hand firmly on his shoulder and squeezed.

“I am sorry, Adrastos. I need your wits and your wisdom to get me to Rome. I have saved enough to keep you from suffering, but it is locked in one of your chests, and I have the key. In the morning, we will discuss it. Tonight you will sleep, and I will drive the ox.” He pulled a bag out of his belt and opened it in front of Adrastos’ face. “The riches you will receive when we are done will be more than enough to replace your wine.” The size and heft of the bag surprised Phaedra. She had assumed the only money he had was what Delia had given him. This looked like more than ten times that much.

Adrastos stopped crying and peered into the bag. With a slow nod, he lumbered to his feet and staggered to the door. Thane put the bag away, helped the drunken giant manage the climb then closed the door behind him.

Phaedra and Bahar scrambled out of the woods at a signal, joining Thane in front of the wagon as he scrutinized the road and the forest. Phaedra tried to ask him a question, but he abruptly raised his hand to stop her, pointing to the wagon and putting a finger to his lips.

When he seemed satisfied, he climbed up into the small seat behind the ox and offered his hand to Phaedra. When the warm calloused fingers grabbed her arm, she felt a hot blush start up her face and bit her lip to stop it. Without a word, Thane drew her to his chest and held her there, his power pounding to the beat of his heart against her breasts. Face to face, Phaedra fought the urge to stare into those cold blue eyes, but it was useless. His mouth opened a fraction and for a terrifying moment, she thought he would kiss her. Instead, he smirked at her then swung her around to sit close to him on the seat. An instant of disappointment eclipsed her irritation.

Bahar had circled to the other side of the wagon and climbed up the seat to sit next to Phaedra. The fit was so tight on the rough wooden bench that Phaedra could smell the musk of the ox and feel Thane’s heavily muscled arm against hers as he grab the reins to maneuver the beast to turn the wagon back the way it had come. When it was finally turned, Thane sat back in the seat, put the reins in his left hand and placed his arm on the rest behind her, making Phaedra ever more uncomfortable.

Glancing up at the prince, she saw his superior smile and tried to scoot away from him, but Bahar was wedged to her right and there was no room. She finally settled for leaning down, putting her elbows on her knees and resting her cheek on one fisted hand. The ox’s stringent odor assailed her nose instantly, but she did not amend her position.

As they made their way down the road, the gladiator’s close proximity made her insides turn to water and her center crave his touch while additional visions of his erection loomed behind her eyes. She closed them tight and tried to think of something else… anything else. It was going to be a very long journey.

Chapter XII

Thane nodded off for the second time, then startled awake at a snort from the ox. He jerked his head back sending tendrils of pain into his shoulders. Blinking several times, he noticed the sky lightening. They would need to find a camp soon.

A delicate snore vibrated against his shoulder and he tipped his chin to gaze at Phaedra who had snuggled against his chest in the night, apparently not knowing it. Her warm head fit into the crook of his arm perfectly and her right arm had snaked out at one point and wrapped itself in the folds of his tunic, her fingers brushing the naked skin underneath.

The long lashes that brushed her cheek coupled with the black wavy hair and swollen, sweet lips made him tighten his groin and take in a deep breath. The lavender smell of her hair was gone, replaced by a spicy musk that he found more appealing. It was like breathing in a powerful philter. His rod stiffened painfully for the fourth time that night, and he found it more difficult every time to tame it. He came to a decision.

When he pulled hard on the reins, the lumbering beast let out a trumpeting bleat, tossed his head back and turned those black soulless eyes on Thane. Both Phaedra and Bahar jolted awake at the sound.

The blush of embarrassment that instantly colored the girl’s cheeks when she realized how she was placed, forced a smirk onto Thane’s lips. She disentangled her hand from his tunic and accidentally brushed against his hardened muscle. When she glanced at his lap, her lips parted in surprise, and the red in her face deepened to almost violet. Pulling herself away from him, she pushed at his chest with force and sneered at him. Her face, even screwed up in anger, triggered him… in fact, more so. He wanted to lick that look off her.

The ox stopped, and Thane wasted no time throwing the reins to Bahar and jumping out of the wagon. Without a word to either of them, he entered the woods.

When he finished relieving himself, he did not return to the road immediately. Instead, he paced the small clearing, trying to get the muddle out of his head and Phae out of his imagination.

He did not know how this little slip of a girl could cut through thirty years of self-discipline and rigorous training as if he was some love-addled pup. She had to be a witch; it was the only explanation he would accept. Somehow, at some point, she had vexed him with a spell, a charm or a potion. That had to be it.

The idea made him feel better; after all, the alternative was unthinkable. He could not possibly be in love with the little vixen; he was too strong for that. The soaking pine needles under his sandals released the indolent smell of decay and he breathed it in deeply to appease the conflict. When he heard a cry, he turned and rushed back through the woods.

What greeted him forced a smile to his face. Standing upright, seriously bewildered, stood Adrastos leaning on a crooked staff, squinting at Phaedra and Bahar as if they were illusions. One hand to his heart, he was screaming, “So it is you, wood nymphs, who have stolen my wine and cursed my wagon!” He lifted the staff and swung it several times over his head, lost his footing then fell on his rear, cursing furiously between Latin and Greek. “Be gone, witch!
ŸPÁ±½¯É½µÂ
¿PÁ±½ÌÂ
!
Per barba of Zeus filiolus vomica vos
!
Merda
!”