Nobody Loves a Centurion (16 page)

“You’d think he’d keep his land deed in a temple closer to home,” I said. I opened another. This, too, was a deed, to an estate in Campania, purchased just a few months before. I noticed Molon studying it over my shoulder. I pointed to the other belongings.

“Stack these things over by the big tent and find something to cover them with.” He did not look happy but he set to the task. Quickly, I went through the documents. The bulk of them were deeds to sizable estates. It looked as if Titus Vinius had been determined to buy up Italy. I recognized the names of some of the sellers but that meant nothing. Many wealthy Romans owned lands they had never seen. They bought and sold them through intermediaries, as the wars and politics of the times caused values to rise and fall.

I glanced over the sums recorded for the various sales and made a quick estimate of the total, then I sat back, stunned. Titus Vinius had died a millionaire. Where had this money come from? Men from wealthy families did not make a career in the ranks. I knew that the Tenth had not been in on any of the great looting parties like the sack of Tigranocerta, Mithri-dates’ stronghold, which fell to the legions of Lucullus some eleven years earlier. It had been stationed in Gaul or Spain for at least the last ten years, with occasional visits to northern Italy. The total of his pay and bribes and loot could hardly have amounted to a tenth of the fortune recorded in these documents.

“Will there be . . . ?”

I snapped a deed shut at the sound of Molon’s voice. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” He hadn’t been sneaking,
but I was so absorbed in this incredible revelation that I was oblivious to everything else.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, your nerves are on edge. Shall I bring you some wine?”

“Do so.” Suddenly, I realized that my mouth was dry. How did these deeds tie in with his murder? I was sure that there had to be a connection. Titus Vinius had died under very peculiar circumstances. Titus Vinius was incredibly rich for a career soldier. Any man may have one great anomaly in his character or his history. I was not prepared to accept two unless they were bound together in some way.

Molon returned with a pitcher and a cup and I drank gratefully. I began to put the deeds back into the chest, and as I did so I shifted it slightly. It still seemed to be exceptionally heavy. I decided to wait and investigate this when there was no observer present.

“Molon, I am going to return to my tent. Carry this chest.”

“Excuse me, sir, aren’t you going to add these items to the inventory?” He indicated the scroll that lay open by my elbow, one end weighted with a dagger, the other with my helmet. I had completely forgotten it.

“I’ll finish up in the morning. It’s getting too dark to write. What business is it of yours, anyway?”

“Oh, none, none. Have a little more of this wine, sir.”

I did as he suggested. It soothed my agitation wonderfully. After all, what was there to get excited about? I couldn’t help it: things were not as expected and that was always upsetting in a hostile environment. I was getting almost soldierlike in my yearning for an orderly existence.

We trudged back to my tent and I kept Molon in front of me the whole time, making sure that he had no opportunity to
peek into the chest. I could see that I was going to have a problem with the thing. I wanted nobody to know what I knew until I had some answers to my questions.

Hermes looked as uneasy as I felt when we arrived at my tent. I took his chin between my thumb and forefinger and turned his head for a better view of his face. He had a fine black eye developing.

“You’ve made Freda’s acquaintance, I see.”

“Why did you buy him?” Hermes demanded, looking sourly at Molon.

“I didn’t buy anybody. Caesar gave them to me.”

“It’s going to be crowded in this tent,” he complained.

“No, it isn’t. You and Molon can sleep out here under the awning. Spring is here and summer isn’t far off.”

“I’ll freeze!”

“I shall miss you,” I assured him.

The tent flap opened and Freda came out. Hermes’ peeved expression changed to one of worshipful awe. It was going to take more than a black eye to dampen his ardor.

“I have set your tent to order,” she reported. “You and the boy have been living like swine.”

“I suppose it takes a nomad to know how to keep a tent tidy,” I said. “Molon, take that chest inside and leave it under my bed.” He did as I told him, and I kept my eyes on him the whole time to make sure he didn’t look inside it. Then Hermes helped me out of my armor. I waved my arms around and flexed my stiff shoulders. I always felt as if I could fly when I was relieved of that weight.

“Hermes, fetch lamps and put them in the tent.”

“There’s already one in there,” he said, referring to the tiny clay lamp that provided a minimal glow.

“I want more lamps and bigger ones,” I told him. “Find me some.” He went off muttering and I sat down to absorb some wine before getting to the night’s major activity. Freda stood by the doorway, ignoring me while I spoke to Molon.

“Now that you belong to me, I need to know about you,” I began. “Tell me about your history.”

“Not much to tell,” he began, meaning that there was not much he was willing to tell me. “My father was a Greek merchant who lived in Massalia. My mother was a Gaul, a Boian woman from the north, so I learned both their languages as a child. I went with my father on trading expeditions up the river valleys all the way to the Northern Sea.” He said all this as if he were speaking of someone else, giving no indication whether it had been a happy time for him.

“I suppose I was about sixteen when we were captured by a party of German raiders. Ordinarily, Greek traders can pass through territory fought over by warring tribes in perfect safety. The Gauls never molest them. They value the foreign trade too highly. But these were Germans who had just come across the river and we were just more foreigners as far as they were concerned. They got into the wine we’d been trading and before long they were putting the men to death and having fun with the women slaves we’d bought. The next morning we were marched back toward Germany. My father was dead by that time, which was a great relief to him.”

“Why did they spare you?” I asked him.

“Later on, when I learned their language, I found out that they thought I resembled a forest sprite of theirs; a mischievous creature that lives beneath the roots of trees and plays tricks on people. They thought it might be bad luck to kill me, so they made me their slave. At first they used me for hard labor,
but I proved I could be more valuable to them as an interpreter.”

“Why?” I asked. “There are German tribes that have lived next to Gauls for centuries. There should be no shortage of Germans fluent in both tongues. And they must have plenty of Gallic slaves.”

“Very true,” he nodded, “but these were a tribe from the deep forest, and they had little trust of the river-dwelling tribes, and none at all for Gauls, slave or free.”

“What made you different?”

“I was Greek, or at least half-Greek, and therefore exotic. I wasn’t connected to any of the local tribes, so I wasn’t likely to betray them out of tribal loyalty.”

“So how did Vinius acquire you?”

“My mas—that is to say, my former master was among the envoys sent by Rome two years ago to treat with King Ariovistus. He met with them on the east bank of the Rhine, in order to keep up the fiction that he was not maintaining a presence in Gaul proper.”

“These Germans may not be as politically unsophisticated as we often think,” I mused.

“They have little liking for subtlety,” Molon said, “but they are adept at just about everything that helps to expand their power. They like to fight, but they would rather intimidate than fight, and they are quite willing to negotiate until they are strong enough to attack.”

“You begin to prove your value already. Did Vinius buy you?”

“I was among the gifts given to the envoys. Titus Vinius asked for me personally and the others acceded willingly, since
they thought me to be by far the least valuable of the presents.”

“A pardonable mistake. Did he acquire Freda the same way?”

He looked at her with a smirk. She glared back. “No, she was given to him by a Suebian chieftain named Nasua a few months later.”

“Why?” I asked him. “And who are the Suebi?”

“They are an eastern tribe who arrived on the Rhine about the time of that embassy. As to why, the German chiefs are great gift givers, and they are always trying to outdo each other in generosity. Nasua leads jointly with his brother, Cimberius. It seems Cimberius sent a splendid, jeweled goblet to the Roman Proconsul, so Nasua presented Freda to Vinius in front of all the chiefs and dignitaries. He said she was a captive princess of some tribe far in the interior, but I think she is just some cow tender’s daughter he had tired of.”

Freda snarled something and boxed him alongside the head hard enough to send him staggering several steps.

“What did she say?” I asked him. “It sounded uncommonly vile.”

He grinned, exposing many gaps. “She told me how pleased she is to be the property of so handsome and noble a Roman as yourself, sir.”

“And I was almost beginning to believe what you said. But tell me this: Why have you never sued to have your freedom returned? If your father was a citizen of Massilia and you were taken captive by raiders from across the Rhine, then your slavery is unlawful and may be set aside.”

He shrugged. “My mother was just a concubine. My father had a legitimate son by his Greek wife and never acknowledged
me. There is little point in suing. Freedom is a greatly overrated commodity, anyway. For most of us it just means freedom to starve.”

I got up as Hermes returned with the lamps. While he arranged them inside the tent, I watched Freda watching me. No fear there, just a coolly fierce calculation.

“There you go,” Hermes announced as he came out. “It’s lit up like a forge in there.”

“You and Molon make yourselves comfortable out here,” I told them. “Freda, come with me.” I ducked through the doorway and sat on the edge of my cot. The ropes creaked beneath me as I tugged at the laces of my boots. Freda came in. “Close the flap behind you,” I told her. She did so, a slightly contemptuous twist marring the perfect beauty of her lips. In the distance I heard a trumpet call; a lonely sound, even in a crowded legionary camp.

With my boots off I lay back, lacing my fingers behind my head. It gave me a casual look and concealed their trembling from her. “Come closer,” I said. The tent was not a large one. A single step brought her within inches of where I lay.

“What do you want?” she asked in a tone that said she knew very well what I wanted.

“Take your clothes off,” I told her, keeping my voice amazingly steady. She hesitated, radiating defiance. “Freda,” I said patiently, “there are three men before whom a woman should never be ashamed to undress: her husband, her physician, and her owner. Now get out of that barbaric costume.”

With an even more extreme curl to her lip, she reached up and unfastened the fibula that held her hide tunic at the left shoulder. The swell of her breast kept it from falling and she tugged it down to her waist. Then she had to push it past
the broad curvature of her hips. Beyond that resistance, it fell to puddle around her ankles.

The sight of a barbarian woman’s body can be shocking to one of refined sensibilities. Highborn Roman women carefully remove every strand of hair that appears from their scalps on down. They often have even their slaves given similar treatment. Even Gallic men depilate themselves except for their scalps and upper lips. Germans think it best not to interfere with nature in these matters. Unlike many Roman men, I do not find a woman repellant in her naturally hirsute state. Rather the contrary, in fact, and never more so than in Freda’s case. She looked like a raw young animal, not a polished marble statue.

“Turn around,” I said, my voice barely betraying the sudden dryness of my mouth.

“Whatever my master wishes,” she said, making a slow half turn. Her great, golden mane covered her to the cleft of her buttocks.

“Raise your hair,” I told her. She gathered the mass of tresses atop her head and held it there with both hands, standing with her weight on one leg in the classic pose of the Aphrodite
Kallipygia
. She was a picture of youth, strength, and grace; a magnificent young beast perfect in every detail, including a flawless skin.

“All right, you can put your clothes back on.”

She whirled and let her hair drop. “What?” It was the first genuine feeling I had been able to elicit from her.

“I’ve seen what I wanted to see. Put your tunic back on. Or leave it off, if you’d rather sleep that way.”

She stooped and picked up her furry tunic. “You are easily satisfied.”

“Titus Vinius did not beat you, Freda,” I said. “Why was that?”

“I pleased him,” she said, fastening the fibula at her shoulder.

“Don’t be absurd,” I said. “That vicious bastard beat anything that came within reach of his vinestock. You don’t have a mark on your skin. Tell me why this is so.”

She sank down onto the pallet recently occupied by the now-banished Hermes. “Men sometimes find their pleasures in strange practices. Especially men who have great power over lesser men. Sometimes, such men like to be beaten themselves.” She smiled at me sweetly. “They like to be humiliated and degraded by women. By slave women best of all.”

By Hercules, I thought, these Germans are far more sophisticated than I had imagined!

“And you performed these, ah, services for Titus Vinius?”

“Whenever he wished. And he never laid a hand or a stick on me, although he sometimes spoke roughly to me in front of others. He said that he had to do this for the sake of appearances. He always begged my forgiveness afterward and wanted to be punished for it.”

Well, well, Titus Vinius, I thought. What an odd person you’ve turned out to be. I’d known politicians who didn’t have as many strange quirks.

“You always obliged him?” I asked.

“Of course. I am a slave, after all.”