Black Sea Horan: Rescued
Rose gaped up at the man looming over her, utterly flabbergasted at hearing her native language for the first time since she'd been dumped... wherever she was. The impression of sky-blue eyes surrounded by wheat-blonde hair and a friendly smile was all she could absorb.
"You... you speak English!" she finally stammered.
"Yes," he agreed sunnily, and then offered her his hand, not grabbing her arm as he'd done before, and asking rather more pointedly, "Can we get out of here?"
She suddenly came back to herself, registering the departure of the other slave women and their master – briefly her own. They were attracting some attention from the other masses of passersby, who either cursed in annoyance at the obstruction of her plopped on the filthy dirt street or jeered at her pitiful appearance. She nodded, taking his hand, and he pulled her swiftly (but not ungently) to her feet, then quickly switched clasps, taking her left hand firmly in his right, swiveled around and began walking at a fast clip down the street. "Stay close!" he admonished in a low voice over his shoulder.
He darted through the crowds with her in tow, working his way over to one side of the foot- and animal-traffic flow. They'd gone a couple of blocks before he suddenly swerved to an awning protecting a bakery, tossed a coin to the boy behind the stall, and grabbed a large round of fresh-baked bread and handed it to her, all in one smooth, swift movement. He took the second to look at her, saying, "Sorry for dragging you off like this, but we must – I must get to the north gate. Explain later. Come on!" And off they went again, Rose clutching the bread to her side with one arm as she held on to his hand like a lifeline with the other.
She wondered at herself, briefly, for just following tamely along yet again – but then again, this was the first person she'd found that she could actually communicate with; she wasn't going to just throw that away. Besides, he'd said he'd bought her freedom, not herself, which (hopefully) meant he didn't now consider her his slave.
She studied him in snatches in between watching her step on the treacherous street: a couple of inches taller than herself, middle-aged (she guessed early forties), with northern European features and sunburnt Caucasian complexion rather than the swarthier varieties she'd seen till now. Her rescuer was neither wildly handsome nor plug ugly, she decided but... interesting-looking. A friendly, lively intelligence was betrayed by the sparkle in his eyes, and a trim mustache, wheat-blonde like his hair, adorned his upper lip, but no beard – although he needed a shave. He was dressed, like many others they passed, in nondescript trousers and an almost smock-like pullover shirt of the ubiquitous undyed homespun cotton, and a shapeless felt hat that let his mid-length hair escape. A rough pack slung over one shoulder and well-worn but good quality calf-height leather boots completed the picture of a traveler not without some means making an effort to blend in with the locals.
Finally, after about half an hour at the same fast clip, they approached an intersection with a large avenue ahead – a very crowded avenue, with lines of horsemen trotting swiftly by in one direction, and masses of people standing on the sides giving the scene the appearance of a parade of sorts. Her companion stopped short, then rapidly switched direction, dashing down an alleyway parallel to the avenue, then another, then up some steep stone steps – and suddenly they were standing on top of the city wall, looking down at the broad plain to the north of the city.
It was a parade of sorts – a military sort. Masses of armed, uniformed soldiers were riding in formation, five abreast, passing out of the city and down the dusty road, headed north. Rose's jaw dropped as she surveyed the impressive scene; the sunlight flashing off weapons and decorations, the noise of the cheering crowd waving their sons and husbands off to war.
The blonde man had dropped her hand as soon as they'd reached the parapet, and started, she noticed out of the corner of her eye, tapping a complicated rhythm on various fingers. Periodically he tapped hard on his right leg. His lips were moving slightly, as he stared down towards the beginning of the line, almost out of sight, then slowly swept his gaze back to the gate. It dawned on her that he was counting the horsemen, using some mnemonic method on his fingers, and she automatically began keeping track of his leg taps as she tore off a bit of the bread and began nibbling on it, famished; those taps seemed to be the least common – and therefore the highest order of whatever system he was using.
Several minutes passed in silence between them as the incredible parade passed by. Finally, the horsemen turned into carts and wagons of supplies, creaking and groaning down the road after the cavalry.
The man gave a sharp nod, beginning to mutter audibly, "Five, ten - "
"Twenty-eight," she interrupted, and he swiveled around to glare at her, irritated.
"What?"
"You tapped your leg twenty-eight times."
Mouth snapping shut, he blinked hard at her, eyebrows flaring. Then, "Thank you," he told her, his voice tinged with surprised respect. He flashed a tiny grin as he looked back at the retreating army. "Twenty-eight hundred, then. Add twelve hundred two days ago, makes four thousand. And six shiploads of supplies by sea." He nodded sharply again, as if settling the numbers into his memory, then turned back once more to give Rose a sweeping glance from bedraggled head to ragged toe and then another, much more friendly smile.
"I bet you'd like a hot bath, wouldn't you?" The expression on her face was enough answer, and his grin widened. "Come on, then. I know a decent inn not too far from here."
^..^
Rose adored the luxury of a long, hot bubblebath as much as any woman in history, but this one - sitting in a large, rough wooden tub, having the water poured over her by an attendant, and scrubbed down with a bristle brush - had them all beat, for the sheer pleasure of simply being clean after weeks of filthy marching. Especially afterwards, when she rubbed light, scented oil into every inch of skin, locking the last bit of moisture in and conditioning her hair in one go. She even got a brand-new set of clothes into the bargain, slipping into crisp, unbleached underclothes, then a gleaming white, long-sleeved pullover blouse and skirt that almost swept the floor, followed by a knee-length, full, wraparound apron of dark blue, with floral designs stitched around the hem in red. No new shoes were available, but she kicked the now-useless old leather scraps aside and went barefoot for the time being.
The inn had only been a few blocks away from the wall, at that. Her companion had led her there and into the common rooms, calling for the manager in the local dialect and apparently negotiating her bath. Then he'd sent her off with the young woman who appeared from the back rooms with reassurances that she'd be taken care of. Her clothes had arrived a short time later; she wasn't sure from where.
Now she was being shown by the same young woman into an upstairs room, the floor covered with rugs and cushions and low tables like something out of Arabian Nights – and there he was again. He'd been sitting beside one of the low tables, writing in a small, well-worn notebook, but he tucked his pencil into the book immediately and put it on the table, standing swiftly and giving her a broad smile. "Better?" was all he said. Apparently, he'd also taken the opportunity to bathe and shave, once again whisker-free, and with a newer-looking shirt on that smelled of soap and cotton.
She smiled back. "Much better. Thank you." She lifted a corner of the apron. "Was this from you?"
He shrugged deprecatingly. "A small gift."
"Thank you," she repeated, then, "Mister...?"
"Oh! Forgive me, madame; I never introduced myself." He dipped his head in a small bow. "Thorsten Sjovold, at your service."
It wasn't until he spoke his name that she really zeroed in on his accent. They had exchanged so few words that it hadn't fully registered. Her answering smile faltered, confused, then she shook her head at herself. "I'm sorry. I thought you were English."
He chuckled. "No. I spent several years in England, furthering my education – including learning your language. But no. I'm Swedish."
She perked up at that. "Swedish?"
"Ja," Thorsten replied, letting the accent really show now. He motioned her over and down onto the cushions on another side of the table he'd been sitting at, resuming his own seat. "But what is your name, please?"
She blushed at having forgotten her manners. "Rose. Rose Tyler."
"Charmed." His smile imbued the trite reply with genuine meaning. He tipped his head to one side and went on. "But I am wildly curious as to how you managed to get into the predicament I found you in?"
Rose shook her head ruefully. "It's a very long story. And you wouldn't believe it, anyway. I don't even know where or when I am."
"Where or..." he repeated, puzzled, but then went on. "Allow me, then. You are in the city of Caffa, on the southern edge of the Crimean Peninsula in the Black Sea, within the Tatar Khanate. I take it you were brought here from somewhere else, then?"
She nodded, but didn't elaborate. "The Crimean Peninsula..." she murmured, not recognizing the name. "Is that near Moldavia?"
Thorsten gave her a quick double-take, then shook his head, picking his notebook up off the table and turning to a page near the front. Across both opposing sheets was a hand-drawn, sketchy map of the area, showing the sweep of the northern shore of the Black Sea. He pointed out the landmarks from west to east: the mouth of the mighty Danube and Dneister Rivers, with the country of Moldavia tucked in between, then the diamond-shaped Crimean Peninsula, with the Sea of Azov to its northeast, and finally a long empty stretch down the eastern shore to a range of mountains running southeast.
Rose walked her fingers from where he pointed out Caffa over to Moldavia. A tiny dot on inland on the Dneister was even marked "Bender" in tiny, precise lettering – his, she presumed. "How far is that?"
"About three hundred miles by land," was the reply.
She sighed. "Still a long way." Then, remembering, she looked up at him questioningly. "And please, what is the date?"
"May..." He rifled through the book to the last page with writing on it. "May thirtieth."
"And the year?"
Now he really gave her a strange look, but answered readily enough. "Seventeen hundred and eleven."
"So I have about a month," she said to herself, recalling Jared's target date for the battle of July of that year. Suddenly it hit her: she hadn't been flung as far afield in time or space as she'd been afraid of all this time. Tears prickled, and she let herself breathe the hope, "I might just make it after all..."
