Page 11 of Firebird
“Then what?”
“Then the master will want to see you.”
The master.Mymaster.
I gulped hard at my new reality. My centurion from long ago, the man who’d given me a gold coin and hope and dreams of a better future, was now my new nightmare, my new master.
III
MALINA
I followed the lame man into the villa, noting that the doorways and ceilings were overly wide and spacious. I wondered if it was because the general and his fellow Romans often walked around in half-skin.
A shiver trickled icily down my spine remembering the half-skin soldiers clawing, killing, and burning the Celtic clan who’d adopted me. The suffocating sensation of smoke and being penned in by fire had me squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, wishing away that horrific sight of only a few hours ago. And the screams.
It had taken all of one brief battle for this general and his army tocut them all down. They’d moved in by stealth. By the time we realized what was happening and had rallied, it was too late to use my gift to help them. Panic had gripped me hard, and I couldn’t save them. I wondered where poor Enid was now, the woman who’d taken me into her home, who’d treated me like her own.
I swallowed the pang of grief as the man wound around an atrium set in the middle of the house, a fountain trickling into a pretty pool bordered by blue inlaid tiles. The fountain was surrounded by all manner of leafy plants and vines, a dome above it open to the night sky.
I nearly snorted with derision. The wealth these Romans had, and yet, it was never enough. They took and took and took. They always wanted more. More land, more goods, more slaves.
Blinking back the tears of anger, I continued to follow the older man through the huge house, down a winding hallway, the many torches in sconces keeping the house well lit even at this hour of night.
“Are you Greek?” I asked, having noted his accent.
“Thracian,” he said without stopping or looking over his shoulder.
“Did the master steal you from your home as well?” I asked bitterly.
He didn’t answer as he stopped at an open door and turned, his expression hard and unreadable. “This will be your room. There should be a clean tunic in the trunk. Clean up and get dressed. I will return shortly.”
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Ruskus.”
Then he walked away, leaving me staring into the darkened room. Taking a torch from the sconce at the entrance, I entered and shut the door, not sure what to expect. It was rather large and clean, a bed set in the corner, a trunk at the foot. To one side was a changing screen with an embroidered red dragon flying straight up and breathing fire.
I bit my lip at the thought of the red dragon who’d just taken me in the air in his claws. I pressed a palm to my stomach where the tip of one of his claws had pressed and torn through my shirt. Thoughhe hadn’t cut through my skin, there would be a bruise. At least I was whole and unsullied. I should be grateful the red dragon’s sudden—yet gory—slaying of my attacker had saved me from a worse fate.
Sighing, I took in the rest of the room. There was a table next to the bed, a small shelf set above it lined with three books. Books? What slave needs or has time to read? Bound books were rare and expensive. Why on earth would there be any in a slave’s quarters at all?
I wandered closer, expecting some drivel by the famous Roman historians or scholars. But no, these books were all Greek. I could read a little. My bunica had taught me and my sisters, telling us once, “The Greeks use their brains more than their swords. You should know their words.”
When I’d asked why we had to learn Latin as well, she’d replied, “Survival. You must know what your enemy is saying.”
I lifted out one of the books, marveling at the leather binding and the neat script copied inside. It was by one of the famous Greek philosophers on human nature and morality.
“What in the world is this doing here?” I muttered to myself.
The second was of a similar topic. The third was a collection of stories of adventurous heroes. Perhaps I was put in a guest room. The master had literally dropped me on his terrace without warning the household. Maybe Ruskus had nowhere else to put me.
Glancing around the room, I realized that couldn’t be true either. While the room was more spacious and well-furnished than I’d expect for a slave, it wasn’t elegant enough for a Roman guest. Not a patrician anyway. What other kind of guest would a general in the emperor’s army have at his home?
Realizing I had little time to gawk at my new prison, I hurried toward the trunk and pulled out a tunic. It wasn’t of the fine material that Romans wore, but a soft linen, well-made, in a pretty pale green. There was a small washbasin, only big enough to stand in for washing, and a bucket of steaming water set next to it.
Ruskus had worked quickly. I’d barely been outside a few minutes before he’d appeared and shown me to this room. And to be given heated water was unusual.
Confused, but well aware that my time was running out, I hurriedly stripped the soiled and torn clothing that Enid had so carefully made for me and stepped into the stone basin. Using a cloth set there as well, I washed the dirt and blood from my body. The blood of that creature. But also of a friend.
