? ? ?
Thin beams of sunlight crept through the cracks between the deck planks and pierced the gloom. I blinked blearily in confusion for a moment before I was able to figure out where I was and what had woken me. Odd Eyes crouched on his haunches in front of me, grinning. His mismatched gaze raked my face and limbs.
“Not too ugly,” he said again, as he had on the skiff. But he spoke not in Latin this time but in the language of my own people. His accent told me he was Catuvellauni, and the sound of it turned my fear to anger. The slaver was a Celt. But from a tribe notorious for their sly, thieving ways. I decided once I escaped—and I would escape—I would cut his throat in vengeance for this affront to the Cantii and the house of my father.
He must have seen the defiance flare in my eyes.
“Prickly Cantii bitch. Think you’re better’n me?”
“I know I am,” I said.
“Ha!” he barked. “I’m not the one with the collar around my neck.”
“No,” I said. “I suspect your thieving kind wouldn’t know the feel of metal around your neck.”
He grabbed a handful of my hair and forced my head back, thrusting his face so close that I could feel his hot, sour breath in my ear. “Don’t insult my honor, little thrall,” he growled. “You stink of the swamps and the muck of that bloody island same as I once did.”
“At least I don’t stink of Rome,” I said through gritted teeth.
The blow came almost before the hated word had left my tongue—a short, sharp jab to my stomach. Gasping for breath, I couldn’t cry out as I felt Odd Eyes grasp at me, his thick fingers fumbling at the lacing of my tunic. I kicked and swore at him, but I was chained, and he was much stronger. I didn’t know if I could fight him off. I heard the sound of my tunic ripping—
And then he was gone.
I fell forward into empty air, and my eyes flew open. Dust motes danced crazily in the slivers of sunlight through the deck planks, swirling around a silhouetted figure. It was the dark-haired slave master from the skiff. He stood above Odd Eyes—who was suddenly flat on his back—and he held a long knife in one fist. There was a moment of stillness that stretched out between the two men, broken only by the hitching sounds in my throat as I tried to catch my breath.
“Get up, Hafgan,” the slave master said calmly.
“I was only—”
“I said, get up.”
Odd Eyes lurched to his feet. “Wasn’t doing anything with the little slave that hasn’t been done a hundred times, I’d wager.”
“Enough, Hafgan.” The slave master turned to me and said, “Did he hurt you, girl?”
I shook my head, tugging my tunic down where it was ruched halfway up my thigh.
“Good.” He sighed and resheathed the dagger at his belt. “Means I don’t have to hurt him.” He turned back to Odd Eyes—Hafgan—and said, “Bring her up on deck. Unscathed.”
He pushed past Hafgan and stalked toward the ladder. “Now, Hafgan.”
I scrambled in the semi-darkness for my boots, but they were gone. Stolen while I slept. None of the other slaves would look at me as Hafgan muttered darkly, unfastening the chain attached to my collar and yanking me roughly to my feet. Up on deck and blinking in the watery sunlight, I could see off in the distance the white chalk cliffs—sacred to the goddess, guardians of the Isle of the Mighty—soaring above the breaking surf. I had never seen the shores of my home from so far out on the sea before. The sight of the cliffs diminishing as the sails billowed in the wind and the ship gathered speed made me want to weep.
Hafgan prodded me forward across the deck toward the canvas tent near the stern. He reached out in front of me and slapped aside the flap. I squared my shoulders and cast a black glare at him before I ducked my head and stepped into the interior. The slave master sat in a low backless chair in the middle of the tent, watching me with a frown. He was younger than I’d thought, perhaps only in his mid-to-late twenties. But his full, neatly trimmed beard and rich garments—and the cool look in his eyes—made him seem older. He carried himself with an air of authority and must have been utterly ruthless to have achieved an elevated station among his gang of brutes at such a young age.
He had my sheepskin travel roll resting across his knees, and I swallowed against the knot of fear in my throat as he dismissed Hafgan with a cursory wave. The silence that followed stretched out between us as he regarded me wordlessly. Eventually, he seemed to come to some kind of decision about me. His lip twitched, and he looked down at his loosely clasped hands.
“They call me Charon,” he said finally. “I’m from Macedonia. I don’t expect you would know—or care—where that is.”
I shrugged. He was right. I didn’t know where Macedonia was, but it sounded very far away.
“And who are you?” he asked.
I hesitated, surprised. Were slave traders always so curious about their property?