Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [70]
Which was as well, because Penelope was late. I knew that she might not come at all. We were, after all, slaves. I have probably forgotten all the truly dull and onerous days, honey, but don’t forget as I tell this story that we were property, like a pot or a sandal, and our master and mistress could, without the least ill will, ruin our plans, our hopes, even our dreams. I knew that Penelope might be working or commanded to sleep in her lady’s bed.
It was past full dark when she came, and she surprised me, coming up behind me where I dozed and cupping her hands over my eyes. Of course I grabbed her hands, and of course she squealed, and one thing was leading very pleasantly to another – and don’t, by Aphrodite’s lovely ankles, imagine we were alone. There were probably twenty courting couples in that dim room, and more outside leaning against the wall, and then there were men playing polis – that’s our Greek game of cities, played with black and white counters – and women actually using the fountain. Quite a crowd. When you are a slave, honey, there’s no privacy. And no secrets.
At any rate, I’d got myself a solid seat and soon I had Penelope across my lap and one hand well placed under her chiton, and she was searching the inside of my mouth with her tongue – I shouldn’t tell you these things, honey, but you’ll know Aphrodite well enough yourself, soon, whether I tell you or not – and kissing her was like war, like hunting. My heart pounded and my head was full of her – and then she was off my lap and across the room.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, her voice more full of anger than fear.
I had no idea what she had seen, but I was on my feet, ready to attack or defend. The fountain was not a safe place, exactly. There were some bad men in the shadows.
I saw the slim figure vanish even as Penelope called after him – a boy wrapped in a chlamys.
‘I’ll run him down,’ I said. I was instantly jealous.
‘No!’ my faithless lover protested, but I was off.
The chlamys was an expensive garment, striped with purple, and the wearer had long legs.
I ran the rich boy down in twenty steps, tripped him and landed on top of him with all my weight on his hips. Then I pulled the chlamys away from his head. My heart was beating, and I was ready to kill. Even then, honey, I was a killer. I had already done it often enough that killing was like kissing an old flame. I knew the dance, and my fingers were going for the finish – eyeballs.
This was no rival, and my murderous fingers stilled.
She was a rich girl. She had pearls in her hair, and her face, even in pain, was flawless, a word poets use too often. She was probably fourteen, her hair was black and her lips red, and in the light of the house lanterns, her skin was as smooth as marble. She had muscles like an athlete and high eyebrows.
I was off her as fast as I’d taken her down.
Penelope appeared and stood between us. ‘You fool,’ she hissed, and I had no idea which of us she was speaking to.
‘I had to see where you went every night, Pen!’ the girl said. ‘Ares, you broke my hip, you barbarian!’ She looked at Penelope. ‘You have a lover!’
Penelope looked at me a moment. I’d unpinned one side of her chiton the better to reach her breasts, and it was hard for her to deny what we’d been doing. She shrugged.
‘What’s it to you, rich girl?’ I asked.
She looked at me and her eyes twinkled. It hurts me to say this, but next to her, Penelope