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Authors: Helen Hollick
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direction of a huddled group
of slaves squatting miserably beside the inadequate shelter of a tavern wall. They
sat dismally hunched against the wet as best they could, movement restricted by
the ropes that tethered them to wooden slave-posts. Always a depressing corner
of any Forum, the slave market. Arthur usually avoided them. He had his own
slaves—what man did not? But those on sale in decaying towns such as this
were frequently a sad lot. Today’s offerings were probably no exception; the
usual selection of old men; women past their prime; skinny, scabby children.
Saxon most of them, the occasional Frank or Burgundian.
He was supposed to be making his way to a designated meeting with Sidonius
Apollinaris, one-time Ambassador of Gaul and Prefect of Rome, a man now
somewhat discredited by his friend’s treasonable letter, an incitement against
peace. There was no hurry; let the intrusive little turd wait. Arthur and his men
had been kept waiting these long months, all damn summer and winter. One
promise and assurance after another delayed or set aside. Sidonius had requested
this meeting to explain the latest set of excuses for keeping the Britons encamped
with nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to fight with or against—and aye,
there was a degree of explaining to do! Having a few bones of his own to pick
over, Arthur had agreed to meet—aside, there was little else to do in this town,
especially on such a miserable, wet morning.
“Now, Diana might be alluring, but what of that fair-skinned beauty?”
Making his way obliquely across the Forum, Arthur pointed at a girl, her hands
bound, tethered from a neck ring to the slave-posts by a rope. She was standing,
dressed well for a slave, arguing fiercely with the slave-master, her head tossing,
foot stamping. A second man, fat-bellied and porcine in appearance, was joining
in, a goatskin was dropped in the mud at his feet, in one hand he held out a
leather pouch which jingled a few coins. The other hand made a grab for the
girl, who darted nimbly aside while pouring more complaint at her master.
Intrigued, Arthur, with Bedwyr at heel, wandered closer.
“I am not worth that piddling amount!” she was declaring heatedly. “A few
bronze coins and a stinking goatskin? Woden’s breath, I am a noblewoman’s
daughter, you cannot sell me for the price of a,” she spat at the man attempting
to purchase her, “for the price of a piss pot!”
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 7
Arthur folded his arms, grinning. A slave negotiating her own payment? He
had never seen or heard such a thing! “Take my offer or go without, Tadius!”
the fat man protested. “It is a good offer; you’ll not sell such a shrew for better
in this town!”
Tadius obviously agreed, for he took the leather pouch. The girl shrieked her
rage. “My mother was the sister of a thegn—of Leofric of the Elbe! She was
wife to one of Odovacer’s trusted generals! I am related to royal birth, damn it!”
Tadius was ignoring her, unfastening her tether. “By the Hammer!” she cursed,
“I am related by marriage to the king of Britain, to Riothamus himself—I
ought be valued as a royal concubine, nothing less!” She fell forward to her
knees as the slave-master jerked her rope, breath knocking from her.
“You’re a tongue-shrilling damn nuisance!” The man countered. “No
wonder I was offered you so cheap—Odovacer, the Saxon warlord, probably
sold you into slavery himself to be rid of you from his encampment!”
“I was abducted by the stinking Gauls, as you well know, you bastard!”
Standing with his familiar expression of one eyebrow raised, the other eye
half shut, Arthur’s interest had heightened. Leofric of the Elbe? Winifred’s
deceased husband? Surely there would not be two of the same name and title?
The fat man had hold of the rope, was jerking it to encourage the girl to
stand, succeeding only in dragging her forward. Panic was
of slaves squatting miserably beside the inadequate shelter of a tavern wall. They
sat dismally hunched against the wet as best they could, movement restricted by
the ropes that tethered them to wooden slave-posts. Always a depressing corner
of any Forum, the slave market. Arthur usually avoided them. He had his own
slaves—what man did not? But those on sale in decaying towns such as this
were frequently a sad lot. Today’s offerings were probably no exception; the
usual selection of old men; women past their prime; skinny, scabby children.
Saxon most of them, the occasional Frank or Burgundian.
He was supposed to be making his way to a designated meeting with Sidonius
Apollinaris, one-time Ambassador of Gaul and Prefect of Rome, a man now
somewhat discredited by his friend’s treasonable letter, an incitement against
peace. There was no hurry; let the intrusive little turd wait. Arthur and his men
had been kept waiting these long months, all damn summer and winter. One
promise and assurance after another delayed or set aside. Sidonius had requested
this meeting to explain the latest set of excuses for keeping the Britons encamped
with nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to fight with or against—and aye,
there was a degree of explaining to do! Having a few bones of his own to pick
over, Arthur had agreed to meet—aside, there was little else to do in this town,
especially on such a miserable, wet morning.
“Now, Diana might be alluring, but what of that fair-skinned beauty?”
Making his way obliquely across the Forum, Arthur pointed at a girl, her hands
bound, tethered from a neck ring to the slave-posts by a rope. She was standing,
dressed well for a slave, arguing fiercely with the slave-master, her head tossing,
foot stamping. A second man, fat-bellied and porcine in appearance, was joining
in, a goatskin was dropped in the mud at his feet, in one hand he held out a
leather pouch which jingled a few coins. The other hand made a grab for the
girl, who darted nimbly aside while pouring more complaint at her master.
Intrigued, Arthur, with Bedwyr at heel, wandered closer.
“I am not worth that piddling amount!” she was declaring heatedly. “A few
bronze coins and a stinking goatskin? Woden’s breath, I am a noblewoman’s
daughter, you cannot sell me for the price of a,” she spat at the man attempting
to purchase her, “for the price of a piss pot!”
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 7
Arthur folded his arms, grinning. A slave negotiating her own payment? He
had never seen or heard such a thing! “Take my offer or go without, Tadius!”
the fat man protested. “It is a good offer; you’ll not sell such a shrew for better
in this town!”
Tadius obviously agreed, for he took the leather pouch. The girl shrieked her
rage. “My mother was the sister of a thegn—of Leofric of the Elbe! She was
wife to one of Odovacer’s trusted generals! I am related to royal birth, damn it!”
Tadius was ignoring her, unfastening her tether. “By the Hammer!” she cursed,
“I am related by marriage to the king of Britain, to Riothamus himself—I
ought be valued as a royal concubine, nothing less!” She fell forward to her
knees as the slave-master jerked her rope, breath knocking from her.
“You’re a tongue-shrilling damn nuisance!” The man countered. “No
wonder I was offered you so cheap—Odovacer, the Saxon warlord, probably
sold you into slavery himself to be rid of you from his encampment!”
“I was abducted by the stinking Gauls, as you well know, you bastard!”
Standing with his familiar expression of one eyebrow raised, the other eye
half shut, Arthur’s interest had heightened. Leofric of the Elbe? Winifred’s
deceased husband? Surely there would not be two of the same name and title?
The fat man had hold of the rope, was jerking it to encourage the girl to
stand, succeeding only in dragging her forward. Panic was
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