“No girl.” I shook my head.
“Ah.” Maharbal raised his brows. “A boy?”
“No,” I said firmly. “My friend, it’s been over ten years since I’ve set foot on Terre d’Ange, but there is one part of my heritage I retain. I’ll not take anyone, man or woman, as an unwilling bed partner.”
“A man of scruples,” he said with amusement. “I see.”
“Oh, one or two,” I replied easily.
Maharbal laughed. “Somehow, I suspect that getting willing bed partners is no obstacle for you, my lord. Come, let’s have a look at the brute muscle. Strytanus keeps a healthy stable.”
We strolled over to a blue tent where the slave-merchant Strytanus did indeed keep a healthy stable.
I’d been to slave-markets before, but only in her ladyship’s company, and only knowing that any slave purchased on Cythera would serve no more than seven years’ time, which really wasn’t much worse than the custom of indentured service in Terre d’Ange. And, of course, any slaves purchased by her ladyship were given their freedom and the opportunity to enter her service, which served the dual purpose of assuaging her ladyship’s deep-seated remorse for her son’s suffering, as well as building her loyal network.
This was different.
Carthage had no such laws. Most of the slaves sold here would live and die as slaves, unless by some chance they were clever or useful enough to rise very, very high in their master’s estimation. And anyone being sold for brute muscle was unlikely to stand such a chance.
“Where are you from?” I asked an older hulking fellow with a squashed nose.
“Hellas,” he said briefly. “I was a wrestler.”
“What happened?” I asked.
He eyed me warily. “Lost too many matches and fell into penury. Why do you care?”
“Hey!” The slaver Strytanus struck him across the broad shoulders with a narrow rod. “Mind your tongue.”
The wrestler didn’t flinch, but his gaze slid away from mine.
I talked to a few others, a process the slaves, slave-merchant, and Maharbal found quite bizarre. In the end, I settled on the wrestler, a pair of lean, hungry-looking Carthaginian brothers who’d known a lifetime of deprivation, and a fierce Amazigh with a branded cheek who refused to talk.
“You’re mad,” Maharbal said affably. “The Hellene’s too old, the Carthaginians are malnourished—through no fault of Strytanus’, I’ll hasten to add—and the Amazigh’s like to slide a dagger between your ribs.”
I smiled at him. “We’ll see.”
Strytanus had grown distracted by a new customer, a Carthaginian lady seeking a pretty boy to decorate her household. She was contemplating a slender lad of some ten or eleven years, with curly black hair and fear-stricken eyes.
“Is he biddable?” she fretted.
The slave-merchant spread his hands. “My lady, I make no claims. He is Aragonian, one of the first fruits of the spoils of war. You asked for pretty and he is that. If he is wise, he will be grateful for your gentle mercy.”
“Yes, yes.” The woman waved one hand. “Does he at least speak Hellene?”
“I fear he does not,” Strytanus said in an apologetic tone.
She tilted her head, considering the boy. He stared back at her, wide brown eyes filled with terror and incomprehension. For some reason, the sight made me feel sick inside.
“I think not,” the Carthaginian woman said decisively. She gestured to her attendants. “Next!”
The boy gazed after her as she swept away toward the next tent full of human merchandise, unsure what had transpired. Knowing only that he was alone in the world, friendless and bereft.
“Forgive me.” Strytanus approached, bowing. “You have made your choice, my lord?”
“Indeed.” I wrenched my gaze from the Aragonian boy.
Strytanus noticed. “Is my lord . . . interested?”
“Alas, no.” I forced a smile. “Shall we talk?”
We haggled over the bearers I’d chosen. In the end, I daresay I got a fair price, since I’d chosen men the slaver was eager to dispose of. Not so good a price as I might have gotten. I was distracted by the boy.
“Very good,” Strytanus said smoothly when our deal was concluded. “I shall have them delivered to your household in a matter of hours.”
I inclined my head. “My thanks.”
Our business finished, Maharbal and I departed. I felt the Aragonian boy’s eyes burning holes in my back, starved for some word or gesture of kindness. I wished I could have spared him. But I’d already told Maharbal I wasn’t in the market for aught but bearers. And as the slave-trader had said, he was but the first of many. The spoils of war. There would be others.
Many others.
I could best help them by completing my mission. By undoing Carthage’s magics—those that bound the princess, and those that bound Terre d’Ange itself. For the first time, it began to feel like a noble cause. It was a novel sensation, and one I quite enjoyed contemplating.
We ventured to the inner harbor and located Captain Deimos aboard the Cytheran flagship. I made arrangements to have Ptolemy Solon’s tribute-gifts delivered to the villa I had rented. And then, back to the inn, where Maharbal made arrangements to have my things delivered and his bearers to escort me. He bade me farewell, covering my hands with his own. “If I may be of further service . . .”
“Of course.” I pressed his hands warmly. “You have been most helpful.”
He bowed. “We seek to please.”
I gathered my things, making them ready for the porters. I spied the chambermaid I’d rejected lurking around a corner. I gave her a cheap gilt ring set with a flawed garnet.
“A token,” I said somberly. “For your beauty. An apology for the lack of what might have been.”
The chambermaid beamed at me. “My lord is too kind!”
I smiled at her. “I try.”
It was a relief to get free of the place. Gods above! It took so little time for folk to attempt to set hooks in one. I rode in Maharbal’s palanquin to his cousin’s villa, then dismissed his bearers with a word of thanks and a few copper coins.
The servants at my new villa were bustling about, dusting, waxing, and scouring with an alacrity that I daresay they’d not shown since their mistress departed. I wandered the rooms and the grounds, familiarizing myself with the place. The chamberlain, a sober fellow named Anysus, assured me that he would be pleased to procure anything I required. After the cloying manner of Maharbal, I was pleased by his demeanor.
Everything arrived in good order. My possessions, sent from the inn. The tribute-gifts, under the watchful eye of Captain Deimos and his men. Deimos gave me the name of the dockside inn where they would take lodging, and I assured him I’d send word if I had need.
My bearers arrived, looking sullen and suspicious. The steward Anysus took charge of them and led them to the servants’ quarters. I’d told him I wanted them washed and fed on arrival. I waited until they were eating, then went to have a word with them, closing the door of the small room in which the household servants dined. The aroma of lamb stew filled the space.
“Listen, lads,” I said to them. The Carthaginian brothers put down their spoons with pained looks. I laughed. “Go ahead, keep eating.”
They hunched over their bowls, shoveling down food. The Hellene wrestler waited, regarding me with equanimity. The Amazigh continued eating, slow and measured, his gaze hooded.
“I’m a stranger here,” I said. “And this place, these servants . . .” I waved my hand. “Rented. I’d like to know I’ve a few loyal men at my side. Give me that, and I’ll pledge you your freedom when I’m done here.”
“Where would we go?” one of the brothers asked in bewilderment.
I shrugged. “Wherever you like. You can stay here, or you can return to Cythera with me. You’d be given a position there.”
“What’s your business?” the Hellene asked cynically. “A danger to us, I’ll wager.”
I’d chosen him for the shrewdness in his gaze. The brothers were desperate, which would serve well enough. The Amazigh . . . I don’t know. A bit of a whim, a hunch. Mayhap a desire to irk Maharbal.
“Not if you keep your mouth shut,” I said candidly. “I’m here to pay tribute to General Astegal’s new bride and meet with members of the Council of Thirty. All his eminence the governor asks is that I return with assurances that his position is secure should Carthage turn its gaze toward the east. Assurances best kept quiet, given that the governor serves at Khebbel-im-Akkad’s pleasure.”
“Ah.” His eyes glinted. “Politics.”
“Indeed,” I agreed.
“You want to buy our loyalty.”
“I do.”
A wide smile spread over his ugly face. “Good enough. It’s yours, my lord.”
“Will there be food like this every day?” a Carthaginian brother asked plaintively.
I propped my elbows on my knees. “Every day.”
It was good enough for them. The wrestler pointed at the Amazigh. “What about him?”
I looked thoughtfully at the desert tribesman. He returned my gaze without blinking, eating steadily and managing at the same time to look as though he would indeed be pleased to knife me. “Do you speak Punic?” I asked the brothers, who nodded. “Ask him if he does.”
The older complied. The Amazigh gave a curt affirmative reply.
“Ah.” I smiled. “Tell him of my offer.”
There was a long exchange. At the end of it, the Amazigh’s eyes glittered with fierce tears. He leapt up from the table and poured out a long utterance in Punic. The wrestler rose and positioned himself to defend me—by the Goddess, I’d made a good choice there!—but the Amazigh ignored him and knelt. To my astonishment, he took both my hands and kissed them.
“Um.” The older of the Carthaginians blinked. “He says if you promise to give him his freedom, he pledges loyalty with every drop of blood in his body.”
I looked into the man’s glittering eyes. “In Blessed Elua’s name, I swear it.”
The Carthaginian repeated my words. The Amazigh let go my hands and bowed his head, touching his brow to the ground.
“Excellent.” I stood. “Do you know your way around the city?” All of them shook their heads. I pointed at the wrestler. “What’s your name?”
“Kratos.”
“How long do you think it would take you to learn Carthage’s streets, Kratos?” I asked him.
“A day.” He shrugged. “Perhaps two.”
“Start when you’ve finished eating,” I said. “Come back when you’re done.” I thought for a moment. “Take him,” I added, nodding at the Amazigh.
“He might flee,” Kratos observed. “I might flee.”
I smiled. “You won’t.”
Twenty-Seven
I spent the balance of my first whole day in Carthage sorting through letters requesting audiences from various personages, placing them with the letters of introduction that Solon had given me. I’d used my time aboard the ship wisely.
One letter I hadn’t written, and that was to the princess. I wasn’t sure why. On the ship, it had seemed to me that there was some perfect choice of words that was evading me, and I’d resolved to put off the task until I was on solid ground, hoping I’d be able to think more clearly.
Now it seemed a foolish notion. I was Ptolemy Solon’s emissary. Her highness would see me or refuse me on that basis alone. Still, the feeling persisted. I pushed it firmly away, uncorked my inkwell, and wrote out a courteous and polite request for an audience with her.
Kratos and the Amazigh—whose name I later learned was Ghanim—returned ere nightfall. I was pleased to have my conviction confirmed. Carthage had strict laws for dealing with runaway slaves. The brand on Ghanim’s face suggested he’d already made one such attempt, and I’d determined that he’d put enough stock in my promise not to risk another. Kratos, I thought, had too much sense.
Still, ’twas always a pleasure to be right. If I’d been mistaken, I’d have been out naught but the cost of a pair of slaves. With this gamble, I’d won another measure of their loyalty, purchased with simple trust.
I had a brief word with the steward Anysus regarding the delivery of my letters on the morrow, a task he readily agreed to oversee. I gave orders that my new slaves were to be fed heartily three times a day and provided Anysus with funds to cover all additional expenses that this expansion of the household would entail.
Once that was done, I felt my plans were settling nicely into place. I dined alone and found that the villa’s cook was perfectly adequate. And then I retired to my private chambers and rummaged through Solon’s tribute-gifts until I found a ring that fit me nicely, a heavy band of gold set with a sapphire. Using the tip of my little belt knife, I was able to prize the gem from its setting.
Perfect.
With the last of my preparations complete, I took to my bed and slept.
On the morrow, I rose feeling refreshed and full of anticipation. Anysus had already departed, bearing my letters. Kratos had accompanied him of his own initiative to enhance his knowledge of the city. I admired the gesture, although it set my plans back a few hours. So be it. I needed to practice patience. This was not a task that could be rushed.
At length they returned. Anysus reported that a mere six of the lords were in residence, but that he thought they would be very pleased to receive Ptolemy Solon’s emissary in the next few days.