rosemary jar. She parried the sword’s backswing with it. The man’s wrist and sword hilt crashed into the jar. The warrior yelled again, this time in pain, and started to drop down.
Regeane was too quick for him. With all her strength, she smashed the bottom edge of the pot into his forehead.
Both man and pot went down, landing with a ringing crash on the flagstones. He rolled over amidst the dirt and broken crockery, getting to his hands and knees.
“Oh, God,” Regeane whispered. “No.”
“Yes,” the little girl said, her mouth set in a tight line. “He’s very obstinate.” She selected a clay pan of chamomile. This time when the soldier went down, he lay still.
Regeane stood leaning against the rail, gasping for breath and trembling.
“Why do they want to kill you?” the child asked. “What have you done?”
Regeane shook her head. “Nothing,” she answered, completely bewildered.
The little girl looked up at her, disbelief written in every line of her features. “You won’t tell me then,” she said, sounding deeply offended.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Regeane said. “Truly I don’t.”
“Maybe you’re right,” the child said pensively. “The way I cried in the square, that was shameful and you think me weak.” She looked up at Regeane with an expression of almost adult belligerence marred only by a slight protrusion of the lower lip. “But I’m not weak.” She climbed over the rail, dropped to the ground, and drew the fallen man’s knife.
Regeane scrambled down quickly to join her.
The little girl’s fingers were twined in the soldier’s hair.
Regeane cried, “No! It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. You arenot yet a free person and I’m a foreign woman. We might be punished.”
Crouching beside the man’s head, the little girl looked up at Regeane, an expression of disgust on her face. “You are making excuses. A fine protector you’ll be. Not even the courage to cut a man’s throat. I’d do better on my own.”
Regeane reflected that, for a number of reasons, this might be true, but she was determined not to let the child take the risk. The consequences were unacceptable. She had seen the grisly punishments visited on slaves.
She snatched up the child’s hand and pulled her away from the unconscious man. “No, you will not cut his throat. Come. We’ll try to find a way out of—”
Regeane broke off because the child’s expression changed suddenly from one of disapproval to one of terror.
V
“WHAT?” REGEANE ASKED.
The little girl reached inside her dress. She wore something around her neck—a piece of stone on a thong. She clutched it and whispered a low prayer in her own tongue and began to back away quickly.
Regeane heard footsteps. She spun around. A soft whimper of terror rose in her own throat.
The thing half limped, half shuffled toward her. Most of its body was covered by a heavy black cloak and hood, but what Regeane could see was bad enough. It held the hood over the lower part of its face with the stumps of fingers.
Bone protruded from dangling shreds of pale, rotten flesh. Inside the black cloth of the hood, the nose was half eaten awayby disease, the septum clearly visible. All around, the silver wolf smelled the stench of death, yet above the horror of the nose, two living eyes stared at Regeane. Eyes that were almost beautiful: large hazel eyes fringed with dark lashes.
“My garden,” it whispered. “You’ve ruined my little garden.”
It stopped, dropped to a crouch beside the broken pot of sage, the blue flowers blooming proudly amidst the dirt and shattered clay. It stroked the petals softly with one pale, bony index finger.
“My garden,” it keened softly to itself, “my poor little garden. It was all I had left.”
“I’m sorry,” Regeane stammered, “but the soldier was chasing us.”
“You still had no right to ruin Antonius’ garden,” someone screamed accusingly at Regeane.
The doors to the little
Regeane was too quick for him. With all her strength, she smashed the bottom edge of the pot into his forehead.
Both man and pot went down, landing with a ringing crash on the flagstones. He rolled over amidst the dirt and broken crockery, getting to his hands and knees.
“Oh, God,” Regeane whispered. “No.”
“Yes,” the little girl said, her mouth set in a tight line. “He’s very obstinate.” She selected a clay pan of chamomile. This time when the soldier went down, he lay still.
Regeane stood leaning against the rail, gasping for breath and trembling.
“Why do they want to kill you?” the child asked. “What have you done?”
Regeane shook her head. “Nothing,” she answered, completely bewildered.
The little girl looked up at her, disbelief written in every line of her features. “You won’t tell me then,” she said, sounding deeply offended.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Regeane said. “Truly I don’t.”
“Maybe you’re right,” the child said pensively. “The way I cried in the square, that was shameful and you think me weak.” She looked up at Regeane with an expression of almost adult belligerence marred only by a slight protrusion of the lower lip. “But I’m not weak.” She climbed over the rail, dropped to the ground, and drew the fallen man’s knife.
Regeane scrambled down quickly to join her.
The little girl’s fingers were twined in the soldier’s hair.
Regeane cried, “No! It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. You arenot yet a free person and I’m a foreign woman. We might be punished.”
Crouching beside the man’s head, the little girl looked up at Regeane, an expression of disgust on her face. “You are making excuses. A fine protector you’ll be. Not even the courage to cut a man’s throat. I’d do better on my own.”
Regeane reflected that, for a number of reasons, this might be true, but she was determined not to let the child take the risk. The consequences were unacceptable. She had seen the grisly punishments visited on slaves.
She snatched up the child’s hand and pulled her away from the unconscious man. “No, you will not cut his throat. Come. We’ll try to find a way out of—”
Regeane broke off because the child’s expression changed suddenly from one of disapproval to one of terror.
V
“WHAT?” REGEANE ASKED.
The little girl reached inside her dress. She wore something around her neck—a piece of stone on a thong. She clutched it and whispered a low prayer in her own tongue and began to back away quickly.
Regeane heard footsteps. She spun around. A soft whimper of terror rose in her own throat.
The thing half limped, half shuffled toward her. Most of its body was covered by a heavy black cloak and hood, but what Regeane could see was bad enough. It held the hood over the lower part of its face with the stumps of fingers.
Bone protruded from dangling shreds of pale, rotten flesh. Inside the black cloth of the hood, the nose was half eaten awayby disease, the septum clearly visible. All around, the silver wolf smelled the stench of death, yet above the horror of the nose, two living eyes stared at Regeane. Eyes that were almost beautiful: large hazel eyes fringed with dark lashes.
“My garden,” it whispered. “You’ve ruined my little garden.”
It stopped, dropped to a crouch beside the broken pot of sage, the blue flowers blooming proudly amidst the dirt and shattered clay. It stroked the petals softly with one pale, bony index finger.
“My garden,” it keened softly to itself, “my poor little garden. It was all I had left.”
“I’m sorry,” Regeane stammered, “but the soldier was chasing us.”
“You still had no right to ruin Antonius’ garden,” someone screamed accusingly at Regeane.
The doors to the little
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