The Crimson Chalice Read Free

though she must have cut him down and looked after him, she could have no surety that such an act of charity would be met with thanks. There were plenty of men in the country today who merited being left to hang for the crows and ravens to pick clean. He looked down at the small dagger which she held in her unsteady right hand, and said, “You won’t need that.” He spoke her tongue. “The gods were good to send you, and the dogs marking your goodness let you pass. I owe you a life. On my people’s sign I swear it.” He pulled the edge of his loose shirt aside and touched his left shoulder.
    Tia, fear dying, saw that tattooed on the brown skin was a small, black, crowlike bird with red beak and red legs. She guessed then that he must come from the far west or north, for there lived the only tribes who marked their skins so.
    She said, “Who are you?”
    â€œMy name is Baradoc. I am from the far west where the land falls into the sea in the heart of which the father of all the oceans sleeps. Who are you?”
    â€œI am Gratia. But mostly I am called Tia. My father was Marcus Pupius Corbulo. He and my mother are long dead. I live with my brother, Priscus, and his wife …” She broke off for a moment or two and then went on, “That is, I lived with them until yesterday. They are both now dead—killed by our own farm workers.”
    Baradoc let his eyes rest on the bruise on her forehead and then they moved to the bundle, to the water-filled cauldron and the beaker by its side and on to the half portion of the flat wheat cake and the broken piece of cheese that lay on a large leaf alongside it. He said gently, “These are bad times. Men easily turn against their masters. Some do it because there has been a fear in them ever since it was known from General Aetius that there will be no Roman help for us from Gaul. And others because a new fear is growing with every long boat that brings fresh crewmen to join their brothers along the Saxon shore. They fear the new masters and turn against the old.”
    Listening to him, Tia was surprised at the masterly manner of his speaking, as though his knowledge and authority admitted no questioning. Before she could stop herself, she said, “When you lay there sleeping you talked in the speech of the camps and the barracks. Now you talk as I do.”
    Baradoc smiled. “I have known many old legionaries, and I talk as they did. But also I was for years a servant of a retired Chief Centurion. If I did not speak correctly I felt the weight of his vine staff. I am the son of a tribal chief, taken as slave when I was twelve years old. My master took my education seriously.” He grinned suddenly, deep creases bracketing the sides of his mouth, and added in soldiers’speech, “My belly grumbles for a taste of that cheese.”
    Tia laughed at the sudden transition and, in the midst of her laughter, considering all the darkness which still clouded her life, wondered that she could. She handed the cheese across to him. As he stretched out his hand and arm for it she saw him wince at the flex of his stretched muscles. She said, “When you have eaten I will massage your shoulders and arms. This was something I did often for Priscus in our bathhouse.”
    Baradoc nodded, his mouth full of cheese. Tia, watching him, was sure now that she had nothing to fear from him. There was, too, she sensed, a strength and self-confidence about him which he could readily muster against trouble.
    She asked, “This master of yours, is he alive still?”
    â€œNo.” Baradoc scowled and his face suddenly turned grim. “The Saxons killed him a month ago. But long before that he had given me my freedom.”
    â€œYou are going back to your people?”
    â€œYes.” Baradoc reached for the water beaker and drank.
    â€œYou could have gone before. Since you were free.”
    Baradoc smiled. “I could have done