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The Barbarian
By Judith E. French
Dorchester Publishing
Copyright © 2004
Judith E. FrenchAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8439-5379-9
Chapter One
The Mediterranean Sea
Spring, 315 B.C. The flame-haired woman hung suspended between life and death,
each breath coming when all hope of another had failed. So
faint was her heartbeat that the Phoenician physician
despaired of ever seeing the face of his young son again. His
mysterious patient would die before the ship ever reached
Alexandria, and the sole of pharaoh's sandal would grind him
into the Egyptian sand as mercilessly as if he were the
smallest cockroach.
The poison had been too strong.
He had feared the dose was too powerful when he mixed it, but
the stakes were high. The Macedonian general, Cassander, had
ordered the prisoner's death, and Ptolemy, pharaoh of Egypt in
all but name, ruler of Cyprus, master of the greatest navy
that the world had ever known, had demanded that he bring her
to him in Alexandria alive and unspoiled. Only one ancient
poison was reputed to plunge a man so deeply into sleep as to
appear a corpse ... and that he had never tried on beast or
human, let alone a woman.
He dipped a sponge into a basin of vinegar and fresh water,
squeezed it, and wiped the beads of sweat from the lady's
brow. So fair she was, that it seemed the rays of the sun had
never touched her alabaster face, but whether the hue of her
complexionwas that of death's approach or her natural color,
he was at a loss to tell. He leaned close, so close that his
lips brushed her ear lobe. "Live, lady," he whispered. "Live
so that you might taste the wine of Egypt on your tongue ...
that the sound of a baby's laughter might bring joy to your
ears. Live ..."
She was no untouched virgin, nor was she in the first flush of
womanhood. Yet, she was not old, certainly no more than
twenty ... and she had given birth to a child. Her face was
unlined by age or weather, her mass of glorious hair the vivid
copper-gold of sunset on the rim of the western sea.
The woman's boldly etched cheekbones were high; dark brows
arched gracefully over long, thick, lashes that fluttered at
rare intervals to reveal wide, almond-shaped eyes of cinnamon
scattered with flakes of raw gold. His mouth went dry as his
gaze rested on her sensual lips ... lips so perfectly shaped
that they would tempt a man to risk his soul to taste.
Her body ...
Sweat trickled down his face, and he swallowed, attempting to
dissolve the thickening in his throat ... clamping back the
primal need that fired his blood and turned his phallus hard
and pulsing. He flushed with shame. Was he not trained to
put aside his human urges in order to heal the sick and
afflicted? The woman was dying. What physician would sink so
low as to allow base urges to cloud his reason?
But the lush curves of her sweetly formed breasts and hips,
the silken texture of her skin, and the feminine glory of that
thick mane of shimmering auburn hair were all too real. Her
legs were long and shapely ... her calves ...
The physician rose to his feet, closed his eyes, and inhaled
deeply, drawing in the pungent odors of sea and ship, letting
the familiar sounds of creaking timbers, groaning oarsmen, and
snapping canvas remind him of where he was and why. Making
the sign of the blessed lady Asherah for protection, he moved
away from the woman, wondering if she were a sorceress who had
bewitched his senses. With a foul curse, he scrambled up a
ladder to the splintery deck and let the salt spray and wind
blow the shadows from his mind.
* * *
She tossed restlessly on the mat, caught in a tangle of
nightmares and memories. Images swirled; the face of a
golden-haired man flashed before her and faded in shadow, his
familiar voice drowned out by the snarl of a hunting leopard
and the granite etched features of another man, dark, with
eyes as fierce and haunting as those of the great cat.
Wind and snow whipped through rugged mountain passes that gave
way first to trackless green jungle and then to desert
wasteland as lines of grim-faced soldiers struggled through
knee-deep sand beneath the burning disk of a pitiless sun.
She tried to cry out, but her lips were cracked and her
parched throat was as dry as the empty riverbeds. She could
not summon the strength to run or even to raise her head. Her
fingers, once strong enough to control the reins of rearing
stallion lay limp and motionless.
Only her eyelids fluttered, clenching tight against the
onslaught of thundering hooves and blood-streaked swords ...
opening to see towering city walls rise and crumble to
wind-blown dust. And always the golden man returned, his
powerful arms lifting her, his whispers sweet in her ear.
She groaned, struggling for each breath, feeling her will to
fight seeping away, sensing the cool night of eternal oblivion
that waited to swallow her.
"Come," he whispered. "Take my hand and come away with me.
Away from pain and darkness."
Pain surged in her head, plunging her world into chaos,
dragging her down into a morass of choking mud and tangled
roots. She struggled to breathe, gasping for air, and
screaming soundlessly. In her torment a pinpoint of light
flared and blossomed into a world of radiant blue sky and
green Sogdian meadow. She could smell the sweetness of
wildflowers, see the vivid reds and yellow petals, and hear
the clear, bright song of birds. And across the valley,
pranced a magnificent black horse carrying a golden rider.
Nearer and nearer they came, the man's gilded hair and horse's
ebony mane and tail rippling in the gentle wind.
The golden man beckoned. "It's time."
Strength flowed through her as she reached out, easily
extending the hand that had been so weak only an instant
before.
"Trust me," he called.
"No!" Kayan sat bolt upright and shoved away the wolf skin
blanket. So real. She had been so real. Her scent still
lingered in his nostrils. With a curse, he rose naked from the
bed and threw open the massive wooden shutters, letting the
cold, white moonlight pour into the room.
Footfalls pounded in the stone passageway. The door banged
open, and a servant stood clutching a torch in one hand, a
sword in the other.
"Prince? I heard-"
"You heard nothing!"
"But, I"
Kayan drew back a clenched fist. "Leave me!"
Mumbling excuses, the intruder fled. The torchlight dimmed and
vanished, leaving the chamber in darkness. Kayan turned again
to the open window, heedless of the frigid wind that chilled
his sweat-sheened skin and hair.
His eyes ached for lack of sleep. His gut churned. Would the
pain never recede? Would he live on in torment, eking out the
hours and days listening for her footfall ... looking for
her face around every corner? Would she haunt his dreams?
And if he could banish her from his heart and mind, would it
leave him as empty as a drained wine bladder?
If only he could remember his dreams. That they were of her ...
only her, he knew. He could still feel her skin against
his, taste her mouth, hear her laughter. Did she come to tell
him that she was safe in the heaven of Ormazd's peace? Or did
the evil god Abriman hold her captive in his dark kingdom?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Barbarian
by Judith E. French
Copyright © 2004 by Judith E. French .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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