Page 35 of Taming the Eagle
He grunted, taking the tray she passed him: a meal of bread, cheese, and dried plums, and a cup of warmed wine. He then tore into it. She watched him eat. The Brigante was as lean as a hound, and he had an appetite like one.
Fenella sidled up to the glow of the furnace, warming her numbed fingers by it. The wind today cut like a blade through her clothing. It came from the north and had a dank smell that promised snow. Straightening up, her gaze went, once more, to the high wooden ramparts that rose beyond the granaries. Helmed figures moved about the wall, their pilums bristling against a washed-out sky.
Maybe if I can steal some rope, I can creep up there at night … and climb down from the Porta Principalis Dextra, she mused. She’d require a weapon though—for she’d have to stab a guard or two. Her brow furrowed then. She’d also need to find a way of getting out of the praetorium at night. No easy feat.
She was still studying the wall when a snort drew her attention.
Aedan watched her as he ate, his blue eyes sharp. “Planning your escape?” he asked with his mouth full.
Fenella started slightly, discomforted that he’d read her so plainly. “Don’t tell me you’ve never tried?” she said in their own tongue. Whenever she was around Kahina or the others, she was forced to communicate in her clumsy Latin. However, they were alone now.
“Of course I did … in the beginning,” he replied, before draining the cup of wine.
Fenella raised an eyebrow. “And?”
Aedan shrugged. “It was a few days after I was taken prisoner. We’d fought the Romans and lost … Aquila picked me out of the line of men who’d been captured. First, I tried to grab his pugio and stab him with it … but when that went awry, I took off like a hare through his camp. They caught me before I reached the walls.”
Fenella inclined her head. “How long have you been the Eagle’s slave?”
“It’s been over six years now,” Aedan handed her back the empty platter.
“And you just accept this life … that you’ll never taste freedom again?”
The Brigante’s mouth pursed. He then shrugged as if he cared not. Nonetheless, Fenella had spied the glint in his eye, the way his jaw tightened. She’d hit a raw nerve.
“So, you taught Aquila our tongue?” she asked, deciding it best to change the subject. She didn’t want the Brigante to learn of her plans, for she didn’t trust him.
She didn’t trust anyone in the general’s household.
“Aye,” Aedan replied, heaving himself up off his stool and stretching out the muscles of his shoulders and back. The man worked so hard all day, she imagined he slept like the dead every night. “It didn’t take him long either. He’s sharp.”
Fenella pulled a face. Aye, he was, although Aquila had already proved he wasn’t infallible.
“Io, Saturnalia!” Justinian Aquila held up his calix.
“Io, Saturnalia!” Everyone else at the table, except Fenella, called out, raising their cups.
Brow furrowed, Fenella lifted her calix to her lips and took a sip of rich plum wine. Gods, it was delicious. However, she’d never understand these Caesars and their ways.
Aquila had returned victorious from the north. He hadn’t captured Toutorix, but he’d taken back two fallen outposts. Fenella’s grasp of Latin was strong enough now that she’d understood snatches of conversation between Caius and Ava. Now, a day later, the general’s household sat around the scrubbed oak table in the kitchen, drinking Aquila’s best wine. Before them sat a meal of suckling pig stuffed with apples and walnuts. Boughs of ivy and candles decorated the kitchen.
Aquila and Caius both wore daft-looking cone-shaped hats.
They were two days into the festival of Saturnalia. It took place at the same time as Mid-Winter Fire, when her own people would be feasting on oaten honey cakes and dancing around a bonfire.
Fenella’s chest ached as she wondered if she’d ever see a Mid-Winter Fire again.
Of course you will, she told herself sternly.You’re going to get out of here … just be patient.
As she looked on, Aquila began carving the pork onto platters. “A fine roast, Ava,” he commented.
The cook preened. “I ordered the pig from a farmer months ago … he fattened it, especially for Saturnalia.”
Passing Kahina some bread, Fenella leaned in close. “Why is Aquila sitting with us?” she whispered.
Kahina favored her with a timid smile. Despite that the two women shared their sleeping quarters and often worked together during the day, Kahina was wary of the general’s new slave. Fenella could hardly blame her though, for she was usually terse and snappish with her.
“Saturnalia is a time when the roles are reversed in a household,” Kahina murmured. “Masters serve their slaves. Last year, the general hosted us all in the triclinium.”