She was ashamed at her relief.
“Kill me . . .” He was rasping for breath, his own weight compressing his lungs. Rivulets of blood had dried brown on skin blistered from exposure.
“Where is Jonas?”
There was no answer. She doubted he could still hear.
She dared not grant Rusticius’s wish, or she would find herself hung beside him. Sickened by her own helplessness, she ran back to the camp, the crowd dissipated now that the humiliated Romans had left. Their tents had already been shared out as if the Romans had never existed. She came to Attila’s compound, breathless and tear-stained. “The young Roman,” she gasped to a guard. “Please . . .”
“Back like a pup, tied to his father.” The man sneered.
“Not the boy, the scribe! His name is Jonas Alabanda.”
“Oh, the lucky one. Hostage for more gold. Attila has given him to Hereka until we kill him. Your lover has become a slave, woman.”
She struggled to remain expressionless, her emotions a tumult of relief and despair. “He’s not my lover—”
“And when Skilla returns, you will be his.” He grinned. It was the rare tryst, feud, love affair, or rivalry that did not become gossip in the camp.
Hereka, Attila’s first and primary wife, lived in her own compound adjacent to Attila’s. Several dozen slaves and servants lived with her; and now Jonas had become one, forced to earn his keep by hewing wood, hauling water, tending Hereka’s herds, and entertaining the Hun’s primary wife with stories of Constantinople and the Bible.
Ilana tried to get in to see him, but Hereka’s gigantic Ostrogoth guards shooed her away. Her rescuer had become a prisoner and hope had evaporated, its memory like a kiss that could never be repeated.
It was two long weeks later that she spied him from a distance driving a Hun cart from the poplar and willow copses where the camp collected its firewood. The sun was low in the west, the sky pinking, when she took a water jar to once more give herself an excuse to walk to the track by the river to intercept him. The day had the warm sultriness of late summer, clouds of gnats orbiting each other. The Tisza River was low and brown.
Jonas reined the oxen when he recognized her, but he looked reluctant. She was surprised by how he’d changed.
His hair was matted with sweat from a day of chopping and gathering wood, and his skin had become deeply tanned.
Beyond that, he had visibly aged. His face was harder, his jaw stronger, and his eyes deeper and more worried. He had learned in an instant the cruelty of life, and it showed. He’d become a man. She found herself strangely heartened by his grim maturity.
His first words were not encouraging. “Go home, Ilana. I can do nothing for you now.”
“If Maximinus returns—”
“You know he won’t.” He shaded his eyes against the setting sun, looking away from the slight, pretty, helpless woman.
“Won’t your own father try to ransom you?”
“What little he could afford would mean nothing compared to the pleasure and object lesson Attila derives from making an example of me. And Rusticius died in innocence, while the creature that created this disaster goes home to Constantinople, a bag around his neck.” His tone was bitter.
“Bigilas’s master will punish him for failure.”
“While I eventually hang on a cross and you become bed slave to Skilla.”
Not slave, but wife, she wanted to correct. Was that her fate? Should she accede to it? She took a deep breath. “We can’t live expecting the worst, Jonas. The Empire won’t forget you. It was a crime to execute Rusticius, and Attila will sooner or later want to make amends. If we’re patient—”
“I can chop a lot of wood and you can haul a lot of water.”
There was a long dispirited pause, neither seeing an alternative, and then she laughed, the absurdity making her feel she was going insane. “How gloomy you’ve become!”
Her laughter startled him. He looked confused, then sheepish. “You’re right.” He sighed. “I’ve had another long day feeling sorry for myself.”
“It gets tiresome after a while.” Her grin was wry.
He straightened. Meek submission to barbarian will was not what Romans were taught. She watched him watching her, each trying to draw strength from the other. “We have to get away from here,” he said, obviously trying to force his depressed mind to think.
A glimmer! “Maybe we can steal some horses.”
“They would catch us.” He thought of his race with Skilla, and the Hun’s promise. “They’d send a hundred men.
It would be too humiliating for Attila to let us succeed.”
“I wish there’d been a real plot,” she said fiercely. “I wish Edeco had killed Attila.”
“I wish a thousand things, and find it as useful as spit.
Our only hope would be a head start, to go when they’re distracted. If Attila left on campaign—”
“It’s too late in the year for that. There’ll be no grass for the cavalry.”
He nodded. This girl was smart and observant. “So what should we do, Ilana?”
She thought furiously, knowing word of this conversation would reach Suecca. Yet this lonely and forlorn man was her only chance, unless she wanted Skilla. Despite Jonas’s despair there was something good at his core in an age when goodness was in short supply. “We should be ready for that distraction,” she said firmly. “My father was as lucky in business as he was unlucky in war, but he said luck was preparation that waited for opportunity. We need to know who we can trust and which horses we can steal. Who can help us, even a little?”
Now he pondered, and then suddenly brightened with an idea. He reached for the switch and lashed the ox forward, the cart jolting as he started. “A little friend,” he said.
It was dangerous to take Zerco into my confidence and yet who but the dwarf could help us? I was furious at the crucifixion of Rusticius and felt guilty at my own survival. I knew Zerco had no more love for Attila than I did. Indeed, the dwarf was both intrigued about the idea of our escape and thoughtful about its practicalities. “You can’t outrun them, even with a diversion,” he said. “They’ll catch you at the Danube, if nowhere else. But you might outthink them. Go north instead of south, for example, and circle to the west.
You need horses—”
“Roman, for endurance.”
“You saw the Arabians they’ve captured for breeding.
The Germans have big horses, too. The woman is going to slow you, you know.”
“She’s Roman.”
“This camp has a hundred captive Romans. What she is, is pretty and desperate, which is a dangerous combination.
Hoist your brain above your belt a moment and tell me what she is to you.”
I scowled. “Something Skilla wants.”
“Ah! Now that makes better sense. All right, then. You’ll need to take food so you can avoid farms and villages as long as possible, and you’ll need light weapons. Can you shoot a bow?”
“I was practicing until made hostage. I admit I’m no Hun.”
“It will be useful for hunting, at least. Hmmm. You’ll need warm clothing because winter is coming. Coin for when food runs out. A waterskin, hooded cloaks to hide your identity—”
“You sound like the commissary of a legion.”
“You need to be prepared.”
“You’re so helpful that I’m suspicious.”
The dwarf smiled. “At last you’re learning! Everything has a price. My help, too.”