Several of the Goths tramped toward the ship to bring out the remaining wine. Theudas began to polish the
head of the axe Respa had returned to him. The new chief basked in adulation, though he must have known that the grumbling against him would start at least as soon as the wine was exhausted. Sabellia took advantage of the space around Theudas for the moment to grasp the big man’s arm. “Oh – oh King,” she said her voice desperately trying to regain its girlishness. “You didn’t get your portion. And after all, it was for you that I – ”
Theudas shrugged the woman aside with as little rancor as effort. The big Goth had more on his mind than a woman now. “Get out of the way, bitch,” he rumbled as he thrust the axe helve back through his belt, “or we’ll make last night seem gentle.” Theudas switched his attention to the men returning with the wine. Two of them offered him a silver-mounted cow horn, brim-full and dripping from having been immersed in an amphora.
Sabellia had fallen, though Theudas had not shown enough interest to strike her. Her bare legs splayed, then were hidden again as the woman drew them under the borrowed cloak. She continued to squat on the ground. Her red hair glowed in the sun. Perennius could not see Sabellia’s eyes, but he was quite sure that it was on Theudas that they were fixed. He did see her right hand disappear beneath her cloak. The hand held the knife which, like her, the Goths had forgotten in their new excitement.
Calvus spoke. It was with shock that Perennius realized that he had not heard the traveller’s voice since the rapists had displayed her sex. In fact, Calvus’ voice was as empty of sexual character as it was of accent. Like her clothed body, the voice permitted the assumption of masculinity but it really offered no evidence on the subject.
The second shock was the language Calvus used. The traveller was speaking to Sabellia in Allobrogian Celtic. There was no chance that any of these South-Baltic Germans would speak the dialect, but it was very familiar to the agent himself. In his youth, Allobrogian had been his language of love, the language of his love. . . .
“Don’t become overanxious,” Calvus was saying. “You’ve done very well. Now it’s time to wait and not attract attention.”
A shudder went through the Gallic woman, showing that she had heard. Her head lowered from the fixed aim she had been holding like the trough of a ballista. Use of a dialect from her childhood had cut through her black reverie as well as hiding the advice from the pirates.
Sabellia turned. She eyed the line of her fellow captives. Her face was as lifeless as clay with reaction to the façades of moments before and the emotions underlying it. Biarni used a dagger to spear gobbets of boiled meat and toss them to his fellows. The cripple was not the center of attention, but at least he was no longer the fool of a foreign slut.
“Don’t try anything now,” the traveller continued. Calvus lowered her voice to make the fact that the prisoners were conferring less obvious to their carousing captors. “It’s too early, and in broad daylight you’ll be seen. Only act when you have to; the later the better.”
Sabellia nodded. Her expression was tired and disinterested.
“And if you can free only one of us,” continued the gentle whisper from the agent’s past, “it should be Aulus Perennius.”
At that instruction, Sabellia looked up. As if Perennius were not present – and she might not know that the dialect was more than nonsense syllables to an Illyrian like him – she said, “He’s wounded. I thought Quintus or perhaps the young one. He handles a sword….”
“Lady,” said Perennius, “don’t worry about my leg.” Sabellia stared at him. Calvus was watching also. The tall woman’s face wore its normal calm and a trace of the new smile. “If you get a chance to cut us loose,” the agent continued, “one swordsman won’t do a lot of good. I might. I just might.”