Nobody Loves a Centurion (26 page)

“I have never been any man’s slave,” she told me.

“If that is so,” I said, “then you are not the only person to have lied to me recently.”

Somebody approached from behind her and her shapely, bare foot came up again. I braced myself for another kick, but her foot only settled gently, almost caressingly, into the jointure between neck and shoulder. She began to press downward.

“On your face, Roman.” I went over on my side, then sprawled on my belly and turned my face to one side lest I be smothered. Freda pressed my face into the dirt, and it was no
symbolic gesture. The woman leaned her whole weight upon that foot until I was sure my neck would snap. I could barely drag air into my lungs. All I could see before my painfully bulging eyes was a pair of enormous feet, shod in soft leather sewn with gold wire.

A voice almost too deep to be human said something and the foot was lifted. Another voice, male and familiar, translated: “Your obeisance is accepted. You may sit up now.”

From my facedown sprawl I struggled back into a sitting posture. This is a difficult feat with one’s hands tied behind. I fear that what little dignity I had left suffered. This being the case, I was careful to keep my face immobile, a perfect mask of Roman
dignitas
and
gravitas
. It was well that I did so, for when I was upright with my eyes uncrossed, I was looking up at the most terrifying human being I had ever beheld.

Well above seven feet tall, he stood on widespread legs heavy as treetrunks, two fists each as large as my head braced against his hips. Unlike the Germans I had seen so far, he was broad in proportion to his height, his body like a barrel, his neck so thick that his head seemed to sit directly upon his yardwide shoulders.

His hair was so blond that it was almost white and it was carefully combed out almost to his elbows. His full beard was curly and unusually fine in texture, neatly trimmed in contrast to the unkempt hirsuteness of the others. His features were craggy and dominated by a pair of pale gray eyes that would have looked more at home staring out from beneath the shaggy brows of a wolf. And yet, in that savage and intensely masculine face, I detected some vaguely familiar features. With a start, I realized that he bore a distinct resemblance to Freda.

His brief, sleeveless tunic was of a heavy, feltlike cloth, elaborately embroidered with stylized animal and twining plant designs. It was neither Gallic nor German, but looked vaguely Sarmatian to me. He had a good deal of heavy gold jewelry on him, and from his coral-studded belt hung a sword as oversized as himself, of Spanish workmanship.

I assumed my most formal and official tone. “Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger of the Republic of Rome greets Ariovistus, King of Germania.” It could be nobody else. My words were translated by the same, familiar male voice. So overwhelming was the German king that only now did I see Molon, standing to one side and a little behind him. He too was transformed. He wore a tunic of fine Gallic wool, dyed scarlet; expensive, imported sandals; and a massive silver chain around his neck. Silver bracelets banded both wrists. His lopsided, sardonic grin was unchanged. He translated as the words rumbled forth.

“You talk like an ambassador, Roman, yet you came here with no embassy. You came as a spy in my territory.”

“The Senate of Rome does not recognize this land as German. In the consulship of Caesar and Bibulus you were proclaimed ‘King and Friend’ by the Senate, but this was in recognition of your dominion in the lands east of the Rhine. Rome is at war with the Helvetii, and I was scouting in Helvetian territory.”

He rumbled a while. “Titles bestowed by a council in a foreign land mean little. Occupation of land means everything. I hold land west of the Rhine by right of conquest and I now have one hundred and fifty thousand men on this side of the river, all of them warriors, men who have not slept beneath a
permanent roof in many years. Do not confuse us with Gauls, who are mostly just slaves and tillers of the soil. Among us, all men are warriors.”

“The manly valor of the Germans is famous over the whole world,” I said, thinking it a good moment for a bit of flattery. “But so is the martial spirit of Rome. There is no quarrel between our nations, King Ariovistus.”

“What are your words to me?” he said through Molon. “You are not empowered to treat with me.”

“It is you who came over here to speak with me, not I with you,” I answered. Freda slashed me across the face with her rope, but Ariovistus just laughed. He turned and said something. A warrior freed my tether from its post and two others took me beneath the arms and lifted me as if I weighed no more than a dead hare. I felt about as lively as one, too.

“What are they doing?” Hermes cried as they dragged me toward the large hut.

“I’ll know soon,” I told him. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The interior of the hut was dim and smoky. A small fire burned on a flat rock in its center, the smoke making its way out through a round hole in the roof. The only furnishings were some crude pallets, a couple of jugs, and a few ox horns. It seemed that King Ariovistus did not keep elaborate state when he traveled.

The warriors set me on the turf floor near the hearthstone and left me there to contemplate my probably limited future for some little while. Then Molon walked through the doorway. He did not need to duck to do this. He grinned and winked at me.

“Keep it up,” he said in Greek. “You’re doing fine.” Freda barked something at him as she came in, having to stoop low. “She says to talk so she can understand us,” Molon said.

Then Ariovistus came in. He had to bend almost double and when he was inside, he seemed to fill the whole hut. The three of them sat cross-legged by the fire so that we formed a little circle. The king said something to Molon and the little man (I could scarcely think of him as my slave) went around behind me and efficiently untied my bonds. To my surprise, a warrior came in and placed several strips of seared venison on the ground before me, some broad oak leaves serving as a platter. Molon poured a pale liquid from one of the jugs into an ox horn and handed it to me. I managed to take it between my numbed hands without spilling it and raised it to my lips. It was honey mead, but I was so thirsty that I scarcely noticed the vile taste. As soon as my fingers would work, I picked up a strip of the flesh, gnawed a mouthful loose, and swallowed it. Most people have strict laws regarding the sacred bonds of hospitality. I desperately hoped it was so among the Germans.

They watched me with a sort of grim amusement; then, when I was finished, Ariovistus spoke.

“There, you have sat beneath my roof, eaten my food, and drunk my mead. Do you feel safe now?”

“Was I in danger?” I said. This sent them into transports of laughter. I certainly couldn’t fault their sense of jollity.

“I like you Romans,” Ariovistus proclaimed. “You are not all bluster, like the Gauls. You have real nerve. Listen to me, Metellus. I want you to deliver my words to Caesar. The land of the Helvetians is mine. You may let them migrate as they wish or kill them all, I do not care. If you feel like fighting a war, be sure that after you finish you go back to Italy. If you keep expanding into Gaul, sooner or later you must fight me and I will beat you. I have never been defeated in battle and to this my enemies will attest.”

“That is certainly blunt enough,” I said. “No one will ever claim that you couch your thoughts in a lot of confusing rhetoric. But you err if you think that Rome is easily swayed by threats from a foreign king.”

At this, Ariovistus chuckled. “Rome? I am not facing war with Rome.” He pointed a thick finger in the general direction of the lake. “Over there I face
Caesar!
Do all Romans love Caesar? I do not think so. Many great and noble Romans have contacted me through their agents. They have praised me as a great king and assured me that, when I defeat Caesar’s armies and kill Caesar himself, Rome will seek no revenge against me. In truth, they have promised me great rewards. I will be paid a heavy tribute, and the Senate will recognize me not only as King of Germania but of as much of Gaul as I can seize save for your little Province.”

With a sinking feeling I knew that he was telling the truth. The soldiers had spoken of Crassus’s agents operating in the area. I myself had told Caesar how many of his enemies were counting on his meeting with disaster in Gaul. How deep had this rot gone? Were Crassus and his allies in the Senate (and Caesar had many enemies who were not allies of Crassus) actually aiding the ambitions of Ariovistus materially? Crassus was so rich that this was possible.

“You still must deal with the Roman soldiers,” I told him, “and they rarely ever see Rome. Their loyalty is to their general.”

“Roman loyalty is to be bought by anyone who has gold,” he sneered.

Now I knew that the answers were almost within my grasp. “Not all, but some. Only a few. Was it with the gold Crassus
and Pompey and the others gave you that you suborned the First Spear of the Tenth Legion, Titus Vinius?”

For a moment he looked nonplussed. “It was with my own gold that I bought Titus Vinius.”

Now I was taken aback. “But Germania is not rich in iron, much less in gold.”

“That does not mean we are poor,” Ariovistus maintained. “Wealth lies in land and in fighting men. All else is to be taken when you have those. A few years ago I crossed the river as ally of the Sequani in their war against the Aedui. First I smashed the Aedui, then I took a third of the land of the Sequani.” He chuckled and rocked back and forth. “They owed me something for defeating their enemies, didn’t they? In the conquered land, my hunters found a great heap of treasure in a marsh. It was a dedication from the Gauls to their gods after a battle long ago.”

“I have heard of the custom,” I said.

“Most of the iron was too rusted to salvage, after so many years. The bronze was corroded away as well. But silver and gold last forever.” He gestured at the gold he and Freda wore. “I have plenty of gold now. I will be paid even more when I kill Caesar, unless he is wise and goes back home. It is all the same to me.”

“What was it you bought from Vinius?” I asked him.

“When the time came, when my army clashed with Caesar’s, he was to betray the camp to me. He assured me that it would be easy to do. He could weaken the guard on the wall on a night of my choosing. You Romans do not like night fighting. We do. With an enemy in your camp in the middle of the night, when you cannot form your battle lines and every man
is on his own, you can be slaughtered like sheep. Tell Caesar that. Let him know that his soldiers are not as loyal to him as he thinks.”

I wanted to call him a liar, but I could not. Almost fifty years before, in the war with Jugurtha, corrupt Roman officer-politicians had sold out our legions and let the Numidians in at night, all for gold. The results had been as Ariovistus said. Even in the middle of these depressing thoughts, the light of revelation dawned over me.

“You violated a Druid sanctuary,” I said.

“What of that? I despise the Druids. They only make trouble, trying to unite the Gauls against me. When Gaul is mine, I will hang them all in the groves.” A sentiment he seemed to share with Caesar.

“But they somehow got wind of your arrangement with Vinius and decided to do you a bad turn, is that it? They killed him. Druids can’t bear arms, but they can kill men in sacrifice.”

“They will pay for killing the dog I paid for,” he vowed.

“Three have already paid,” I pointed out.

“It was not enough. I made of those three a gift to my gods, and a warning to the others that I respect their lives no more than I respect their treasure.” He seemed to be in an explaining mood, and I was in a mood to exploit that.

“How did they learn about Vinius?” I asked.

His face twisted. “I cannot be sure. I suspected that he might be double-dealing. The man’s treachery was boundless, and the Druids had plenty of gold with which to bribe him. As a pledge of the bond between us, I gave him first my counselor Molon to use as interpreter and go-between, then I gave him my sister, Freda. In truth, they were to keep an eye on him and see if he stole off privily to confer with the Druids or any other
high-placed Gauls. I bade Molon be a good slave and submit to his beatings and he would be richly rewarded. Freda, of course, he had to treat well, although he was to pretend she was a captive slave.” The woman favored me with a chilling smile and I wondered how much she had told her brother.

There was something otherworldly, almost dreamlike, about this. Here I was, sitting on the dirt in a crude hut among hairy savages, hearing from their chieftain a tale of intrigue and espionage worthy of the Great King of Persia and his subtle ministers. Well, I already knew from my experience with Freda that just because you wear fur and can’t quote from the odes of Pindar, it doesn’t mean that the possibility for sophistication isn’t there.

“You misjudge your position of strength,” I told him, “and you misjudge the determination of Rome. We are at war with the Helvetii, but many other Gallic tribes lie under our protection or are bound to us by ties of alliance. And you overestimate the degree of treachery and corruption in our army from the example of a single man. Granted, it was a particularly egregious example.”

“My course was determined long ago and I am not here to discuss diplomatic affairs with you. I want you to take my words to Caesar. In return, you should be grateful to have your life. Your title sounds impressive, and Molon tells me that your name is that of one of the great families, but I know that there are many of you Senators, and more Senators are made every year, and few of you are of any importance.” For a barbarian, he had a certain clear-eyed regard for the realities.

“Then I shall deliver your words,” I said. “You have my pledge as a Roman.” I chose to ignore his snort of contempt. “And now, King Ariovistus, if I have your leave, I must return
to the camp. Certain pressing matters call me there.”

“You will go when I say so,” he said, glaring like an angry bear.

“But we have no further business,” I pointed out, “and I must return at once. Caesar has charged me to investigate the murder of Titus Vinius.”