The Tattooed Princess

Dancing Leopards

        The afternoon came with a storm, blowing cold rain across the plains. Autumn was settling into the Eurasian Steppes as it always did, foreboding of a harsh winter when survival would be tenuous and the Scythian tribes would see a natural attrition to their numbers—particularly the old and the young.

            Sharvur had been called out with his generals to plan a raid in the West, as their supplies of goods they needed as nomadic people were running low. Not having the development of agriculture or stationary settlements disallowed them some foods such as grains and dried fruits. Fine cloth and silk they also would steal or sometimes trade for their own supply of gold and gemstones which they gleaned from the mountains. Most of their subsistence besides incursions as raids on other peoples, was hunting, gathering and following the herds of wild horses, elk and mountain sheep

            Zaria found Tsudros that afternoon waiting for her in the anteroom of Sharvur's bedchamber. It was where she had procured her first elaborate tattoo, admired by so many, and which set her apart from other slaves, and now as a princess. Knowing Sharvur would be away for several days gave her the confidence to greet Tsudros as she had anticipated—with a warm smile and searching eye for his attractiveness which on more than one night had come to haunt her. Zaria's fantasies of him since their only meeting had left her sleepless in her private but lonely chamber of the palace.

            "Zaria, come here . . . and let me see how my work graces you."

            Tsudros was waiting with his bag of implements and jars of ointments. His long hair fell freely on his shoulders and his wiry, firm body showed off his height as she stepped up to him to take his hand. Once again she was cast into a spell by Tsudros' stark blue eyes. Was that the magic of his artwork? How he saw the world through such exceptional eyes? Zaria was also impressed by Tsudros strong but graceful hands. She had watched them working on her skin for hours before, careful to scratch out the sensual line of the eagle's wings with each feather distinct from the rest. And how tenderly he had lightly sponged the blood from the curving and swirling wounds he caused her.

            "I come to you once more Tsudros . . . confident you will decorate me in the finest way. And again like no other," She took a seat at the long table. On this occasion she had groomed herself in a manner she had anticipated for him. Her golden hair was braided back and she wore a light blue chitin which could be easily slid off her shoulders to allow for his work. She also wore a perfume she was given as a gift from Mila, the women who now attended her full time. The older Slavic slave had made the concoction herself using the pedals of flowers collected in the spring and a rare citrus oil supplied by her warrior lover who would gather it in his raids to the South.       

            "Well I will do my best, Princess," he replied, looking over her decorated arm and shoulder, lost now in the scrutiny of his previous work.

            "And please, Tsudros . . . do not call me 'princess.' I am just Zaria."

            "Alright, Zaria," he said smiling self-consciously. "I prefer that too."

            Zaria patiently allowed him to look upon the broad design of her tattoo, shifting her chitin down off her shoulder.

            "And now, will you do your magic to my other arm?" she asked, holding it out and shifting the top over to expose her opposite barren shoulder.

            "I am not certain," he said after a moment and in mysterious way. "I must think . . .dream a bit about you and the design.  I need to see the drawing on your body in my mind first . . . and then I will create . . . just what I see."