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“My brother-by-marriage John raises bees at Hawks’ Lair. You do know what happens to male bees, do you not, Sidroc?”
“If that smirk on your face is any indication, I do not want to know.” In truth, it was a rather adorable smirk as far as smirks go.
“One prick, and the lusty bee is dead.”
So much for my bzzzzing plans!
You could say it was the Byzantine Mall ...
Drifa was not happy. Ivar was not happy. Her other three guardsmen were not happy.
Her bodyguards did not like her being in such a crowded, dangerous place.
She did not like the unwelcome burr on her backside that had come along, uninvited.
But Sidroc, the burr, was enjoying himself immensely as they walked through the busy bazaar a short time later. She considered pushing him into that pile of horse droppings over there, but he would probably pull her down with him.
She was not going to let him ruin this marvelous excursion. Once one grew accustomed to the foul odors of the city, there were other smells that were more pleasant. All kinds of meat and poultry and fish were being grilled on charcoal braziers. Drifa mused at one point, “I swear every animal from the Christian Noah’s Ark must be represented here in one form or another.” And as for the fruits and vegetables sliced and split for inspection of the customers, “Could the Garden of Eden boast any better?”
“The only thing missing is the serpent,” Sidroc agreed, then made a ludicrous hissing sound.
Wealthy patricians, men and women alike, were carried through the city on litters borne by well-attired slaves. A sharp contrast to other almost-naked, miserable slaves being prodded, along with goats, cattle, and other livestock, toward the auction square. Uniquely dressed dessert nomads with their turbaned heads led camels laden with Mongolian silks and Russian furs.
And the sounds! Cart wheels rumbling over stone and wood walkways, church bells pealing, a dozen or more different languages, shouts of merchants calling out their wares, and many colorful and unique expletives. Yea, Sidroc had been right about the latter. “Move that cart, you camel turd!” “Not a coin more, you thieving son of a goat herder’s whore!” And fuck in various permutations. “Fuck your sorry arse!” “Fuck me if I’ll pay that price!” And the ever-popular “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Drifa could feel her cheeks heat with embarrassment, and she turned to the side so that Sidroc would not see and say that he had told her so.
But he chuckled, and she knew he saw and was amused.
“Come, Drifa, over to this stall.” He almost shoved her toward a cloth merchant who had some ladies’ garments already sewn together. “You said that you wanted to buy some Greek apparel.”
She rooted through the various piles and picked out several gowns and three ells each of silk fabrics in blue, red, and green, along with lengths of braiding and bands of embroidered, stiff brocade. Byzantine silk was among the most precious of commodities, valued as highly as gold in some cases, and she could see why.
“Back here, lily of my heart,” Sidroc said, calling her to the rear portion of the tent. He had taken to calling her silly flower names, just to annoy her.
“Don’t you have Varangian things to do?”
“I just returned from six months of Varangian things.”
“Viking things then.”
He winked at her. “I am doing Viking things.”
She had no idea what he meant by that, but she felt the wink all the way down to her curling toes. “Un-luck shines on me today!” she murmured.
“Did you say fuck?” Sidroc asked with mock horror.
“I did not.” She started to stomp away from him, but he grabbed her hand.
“Come here now. I have found the perfect attire for you.”
I can scarce imagine. Actually, it turned out that her imagination didn’t stretch that far.
He held up a garment that was made of sheer red cloth, which would leave the neck, arms, and abdomen bare, with triple layers of cloth over what would be the tips of the breasts and the nether folds. The bottom started at the hips, below the navel, and was actually a pair of braies of sorts, gathered at the ankle. It was the type of thing she imagined a harem girl might wear.
“Here is the best part, my shy violet.” He shook the garment, and tiny bells that edged the ankles and wrists tinkled. In a voice low enough for only her to hear, he said, “Whene’er you walk about my bedchamber, I will hear you coming.”
“Like a cow,” she said with dry humor.
