The Songs of Loss, book one : Armanth

Chapter 6- The Alba Rupes

"It could have ended very badly!"

"But stop complaining... it ended well, didn't it? And you loved the fight."

Damas replied to Abba, laughing, a glass of schelentia in one hand, a pipe of herbs in the other. He was nonchalantly facing the giant; next to him, also comfortably seated in a wide rattan armchair, Alterma was smiling broadly. Only Jawaad, listening slumped on a Roman-style seat with his back against the terrace wall, was not taking part in the discussion. He'd talked too much all day. He was enjoying a near-perfect cup of tea, acceptable from his point of view, prepared by Azur herself. Most of the slaves in his household - and there were a good dozen of them - knew how to make it, but they didn't fight too hard to try it, as Jawaad was so difficult with this point, one of his worst habits. Alterma was jubilant, forgetting the slight bruise on her left cheek.

"It went so fast I didn't even think!"

Abba was about to unleash a sermon, which would only be the twentieth since the troupe's return to the Alba Rupes estate, but Damas beat him to it, bursting into laughter:

"Ho yes! I was about to get really nasty with those guards when the slap fell, but... you managed to surprise me. He must still be rubbing his ass and ribs in pain. What a glide! Almost worthy of a Jemmai!"

Alterma blushed, halfway between the effect of the overripe sweet wine she'd been sipping and that of the compliment from a authentic Jemmai warrior. Abba grumbled, also slumped heavily in a taut leather armchair that ached under his weight. His free hand was tenderly stroking the red hair of Joran, his tiny, adorable personal slave, settled like a delighted kitten on a cushion at his feet.

"What annoys me most," he finally grumbled, "is that I've seen and understood nothing. One second I'm talking to Jawaad, and the next I see an Elegiatori sergeant flying around, helmet and weapons in tow. I pulled out my fists, I wasn't going to stand by and watch either, but I usually like to know who started it and how before I slap someone!"

Alterma pouted sheepishly:

"Actually, that's me."

Damas replied:

"Oh no, it's him!"

Abba sighed:

"So, what's the story?"

And the story began. Joran opened her eyes wide as she listened to the story that would finally explain why and how her master had come back with a few bruises and damaged phalanges. A detail she wasn't going to complain about; she'd been quick to seize the opportunity to heal his scratches and pamper the giant. The young woman settled herself against Abba's knee, letting her mass of fire-colored hair tumble to the ground. Against him, the difference in size between the freckled, fair-skinned slave and the huge, ebony-colored living mountain that was the slaver was remarkably striking.

It was Alterma who began the story, proud and delighted to be able to recount her recent exploit:

"Well, so the sergeant had planted himself in front of us all, staring at both Jawaad and the synthaia flower on the ground. It was obvious that he had every intention of taking advantage of the event to be zealous to the city's merchants and nobles. I think it was the look on Jawaad's face that really angered him: it was as if he were staring, with all the contempt in the world, at some fat tosh who happened to be in his way, and I don't think the sergeant appreciated it. That's when... I made a little mistake."

Abba intervened:

"At the time, I was asking Jawaad whether to knock or negotiate, wasn't I?"

"I think so, yes! And it just so happened that I thought I might try a little diplomacy. Anyway, I walked up to this sergeant, all smiles, and offered to explain everything to him. He was really, really upset and really, really, eager to make himself look good; and usually in these cases, you become a bit of an idiot. It was then, just as I'd started talking, that he slapped me, rather hard."