by Ben Kane
Tullus watched as the chieftain began raining blows on the slave’s head and chest with his clenched fists. At last the slave defended himself, throwing a punch at his master, but his ankle fetters soon caused him to fall to the ground. Roaring abuse, his owner kicked him. Next, he drew his sword. Tullus’ conscience burned, as it had on that bloody day in Illyricum.
Without thinking, he urged his horse forwards. Red Head and the rest gaped as he rode past, right up to the furious chieftain, a large-framed man with tattooed biceps. He glared at Tullus while the slave looked on in confusion. What the chieftain muttered next was unclear, but it was far from complimentary. Tullus’ anger boiled over, and he moved his horse forward, separating the chieftain from his minion. ‘Your slave is coming with me,’ he said in Latin, and then in what he thought was the German equivalent.
‘The dog is my property, not yours!’ snarled the chieftain, stepping close to Tullus. ‘I do with him what I want.’
Tullus placed the hobnailed sole of his boot against the man’s chest and shoved him backwards. ‘Consider him part of Governor Varus’ tax.’ He glanced down at the slave. ‘Speak any Latin?’
A blank stare.
‘Come with me,’ Tullus ordered in German. ‘You’re mine now.’
The slave’s eyes registered surprise and something else – gratitude, perhaps; it wasn’t clear – but he got to his feet with alacrity and moved to Tullus’ side.
Helped by those around him, his owner had regained his balance. At once he took a step towards Tullus, his sword raised. The other chieftains tensed.
Tullus’ guts twisted. It had been rash to act as he had. A single wrong move now, and the Usipetes would be on him like a pack of stray dogs savaging a bone. He took a quick look at the slave. The fear in the man’s eyes – and the livid weals marking every exposed part of his flesh – hardened Tullus’ resolve. The slave was clearly mistreated on a regular basis. ‘Lay a hand on me, or this man,’ he cried in Latin, ‘and, as the gods are my witnesses, I will order my men to attack your settlement.’ He shot a look at Red Head. ‘Tell him!’
Red Head gabbled a couple of sentences, and the big chieftain scowled. With great care, he hawked a great gob of phlegm through the air; it landed at the slave’s feet.
‘Fuck you too,’ said Tullus. He knew how to say that in German.
The chieftain snarled something back and again lifted his blade.
‘Go on, you prick,’ said Tullus, his temper starting to gain the upper hand once more.
Red Head gestured at the chieftain, speaking in a low voice. Tullus caught the words ‘too great a risk’. With a face as black as thunder, the chieftain retreated a few paces.
‘You treat him with great dishonour,’ said Red Head. ‘Slaves are the property of their owner, to do with as they wish.’
‘It is the same among my people,’ said Tullus.
‘Why are you stealing this slave then?’
‘Because I felt like it,’ replied Tullus in an icy tone. He had no inclination to explain his real motive.
‘Such is Rome’s way too,’ said Red Head, his face bitter.
‘That’s rich coming from a chieftain whose warriors butchered innocent villagers on the other side of the Rhenus,’ retorted Tullus.
‘They acted so because …’ Red Head hesitated, then added, ‘There’s no point arguing with you.’
‘No, there isn’t. Pay the tax, or suffer the consequences,’ snapped Tullus. He glanced at the slave. ‘Follow me.’ Wheeling his horse, he rode back towards his soldiers. The slave trotted after, his chains clinking.
After conferring with Arminius, Tullus waited an hour – extra intimidation – before marching his troops and the seventy sheep back towards Vetera. Varus had received them the moment they’d returned, and was pleased with their news. ‘They’ll think twice before letting anything like that happen again,’ he said. ‘A job well done, Arminius, centurion. There shouldn’t be any unrest at our backs now when we march east.’ He saw Tullus’ enquiring look. ‘I want us on the move by the ides of the month. See to it that your cohort is ready. Your men too, Arminius.’
The preparations could begin tomorrow, thought Tullus, leaning against the door of the kitchen, a clay cup of wine in his hand, watching his new slave light the fire under the cooking grate. Evening had fallen, and he was in his quarters. The slave’s resemblance to the legionary that Tullus had abandoned didn’t end at his face or his black hair. He was also young, short and wiry, and well muscled. Once his fetters had been struck off at the legion’s forge – Tullus wasn’t prepared to keep a slave like that, regardless of the risk of flight – he had ordered him to cook his dinner. It was a gamble whether the man knew how to prepare decent food, but it gave him something to do. Tullus couldn’t decide what to do with him. He already had a servant, a cantankerous old Gaul called Ambiorix, who’d been his slave since the start of his time at Vetera. However, Ambiorix was in bed with a fever, and had been for two days. When he returned to duty, he would resent the newcomer.
‘What’s your name?’ Tullus asked in German.
The slave placed another twig on to the burning pile of tinder. ‘Degmar,’ he said without turning his head.
Instead of feeling angry at this disrespect, Tullus was amused to feel a sneaking admiration. The man had balls. ‘Degmar. What tribe names its sons so?’
Now Degmar looked at Tullus, his face a mask. ‘Marsi.’
The Marsi lived to the east of the Usipetes, between the rivers Lupia and Rura. They had a history of being hostile towards Rome, but at this moment, were at peace. ‘How did you come to be a slave?’
A scowl. ‘It was during a cattle raid that went wrong, two years ago. We didn’t find all the Usipetes’ sentries as we crept into the settlement. The alarm was raised. Every warrior in the place woke, and we fled. I tripped and fell, like a child. Thanks to my clumsiness, I was captured.’
‘That was ill fortune,’ said Tullus.
‘It was my fault, and no one else’s.’ Degmar’s shrug was bitter.
Two years in captivity would have been hard, thought Tullus. Poor bastard.
‘You had no reason to intervene earlier, yet you did … master. I owe you my thanks.’
A little discomfited, Tullus waved a dismissive hand.
‘Can I ask why you did it?’
‘You look like a good soldier of mine.’ The man’s screams rang in Tullus’ ears, but he blocked them out. ‘He died.’
Degmar’s eyes regarded Tullus, unblinking, for a moment, and then he went back to tending the fire. ‘I am grateful to resemble him. Being your slave can only be better than what I endured among the Usipetes.’
Tullus didn’t want a second slave, and Ambiorix would give him grief about it, of that he had no doubt. He thought of the chieftain who’d owned Degmar, and wondered if it would gall him further to know that his former property was a free man. ‘Did you leave a wife among your people? Children?’
‘A wife.’ A flicker of emotion passed over Degmar’s face, and was gone. ‘She was pregnant for the first time when I went on the raid. Only Donar knows if she survived the birth. If she did, she has remarried, like as not. She’s a good-looking woman.’
That made up Tullus’ mind. ‘Why don’t you seek her out?’
Degmar’s forehead creased. ‘You are my master, but I ask you not to mock me. I am your slave now.’
‘I do not jest. Cook me a decent plate of food, and you can have your freedom. I’ll draw up the paperwork so you can get past the checkpoints at the bridge. After that, you can skirt the Usipetes’ territory before you head south, to Marsi territory.’
Degmar’s expression grew incredulous. ‘Why would you do this – for a meal?’
Again Tullus remembered the legionary he’d left behind to die. ‘I’m in a good mood, that’s why.’ He wagged a finger. ‘It does depend on what you produce for my dinner, mind!’
Degmar chuckled. It was the first time he’d let down his guard
in any way, and Tullus’ heart warmed.
‘Your offer is generous indeed, but I cannot accept it,’ said Degmar.
‘Is your cooking that bad?’ asked Tullus, smiling.
‘I owe you my life.’ Degmar saw Tullus’ confusion. ‘My owner was threatening to kill me.’
‘Why?’
‘He had a terrible temper.’ Degmar lifted his tunic, exposing his belly.
Tullus winced at the mass of scars, old and new. Some looked to be healing burns. ‘Why would he slay you, though?’
‘I do not make a good slave. My mouth runs away with me.’ Degmar’s lips quirked. ‘I had just muttered something about the Usipetes being spineless worms for submitting to your tax.’
Tullus snorted in amusement, surprised that Degmar would repeat such a thing to a Roman who yet had the power of life and death over him. ‘Your people would not have bent their knees to me?’
‘In the face of such a force, I think they would have. They hold little love for Rome, but they’re no fools,’ admitted Degmar. ‘I wasn’t going to tell him that, though, was I?’
Now Tullus laughed. ‘You’re one of a kind, Degmar of the Marsi. If you won’t accept my offer of freedom, what would you do?’
‘I will be your servant, and bodyguard, if you’ll have me. I know you have soldiers who serve you, but I will be your hound. Sleep outside your door. Watch your back, protect you against treachery.’
‘Despite the fact that I am Roman?’
A wry shrug. ‘Roman or not, you saved my skin.’
Tullus felt his respect for Degmar grow. ‘How long do you propose to serve me so?’
‘Until I have repaid my debt to you.’
Tullus had never really wanted such protection, but Degmar’s desire to pay him back rang loud and clear from his words. The Marsi warrior was an honourable man, Tullus decided, and to refuse his offer would be disrespectful. I’m getting old, he thought. Sentimental. ‘I accept your offer.’
‘My thanks.’ Degmar bent his head a fraction.
It was the most acknowledgement he would get, thought Tullus, amused once more. German tribesmen could be so different to Romans. Despite the manner in which they had been thrown together, despite Tullus’ senior status and Degmar’s lowly one, the warrior addressed him – almost – as an equal. It was a surprise to Tullus that he didn’t altogether care.
He watched as Degmar got on with preparing the fresh-caught bream that had been a gift from another centurion in the cohort. Tullus still had no idea if he could cook – he would find out before long – but the man looked well able to handle himself in a fight. It was then that an image of Tubero popped into Tullus’ head.
With such a venomous and high-placed enemy, thought Tullus, there was nothing wrong with having a man like Degmar around.
PART TWO
Summer, AD 9
The Roman Camp of Porta Westfalica, Deep in Germania
XV
FALLING FROM THE narrow gap between door and doorframe, a thin beam of sunlight on Varus’ face woke him up. He stirred, aware that he’d been too hot under the blanket. Curse it, he thought, refusing to open his eyes and admit that another day had begun. What paperwork will Aristides have to torture me with? What officers and chieftains will come whinging to my office? It would be the same shit; just another day, as it always was.
A faint, dusty smell – the odour of not just his bedchamber, but his entire quarters – reminded him that he had woken in Porta Westfalica, not Vetera. Varus’ burgeoning sour mood vanished in a heartbeat. He opened his eyes, and sat up with a smile. He was in Porta Westfalica! Here his duties were far lighter. The room’s faded grandeur and its dark red-painted walls, the latest fashion in Rome five or more years before, were of no concern. He didn’t mind that the absence of regular occupants and, as a consequence, lack of heating during the winter meant that patches of mould had bloomed in the corners. They had been cleaned off, but the smell remained. This and the numerous cracks in the plaster were badges of his summer sojourn, to be relished.
Opening the door, Varus exhilarated in the warm sunlight that swept in, lighting up the room. Even the temperature seemed warmer than in Vetera. He took a step outside, acknowledging the sentry’s salute with a cordial nod. Along with other chambers, a dining room and the kitchen, his bedroom faced on to a large, colonnaded courtyard, the centre of which was occupied by a herb garden, apple trees and a selection of statues. All of it had seen better days. Although it was the commandant’s quarters, the entire place had a shabby air, like a holiday villa at Capri that hadn’t been used for several summers.
Other than the principia, few other permanent buildings had been constructed here. Porta Westfalica was only occupied during the summer, so there was little point in erecting barracks and suchlike until the place became a fixed camp. The large house had been Varus’ home since their arrival a month before, and would remain so until their departure. He had the slaves burn fires daily in every room with a fireplace, and the place was being scrubbed from top to bottom. It wouldn’t be long before the building was as good as new, he thought.
Freed of his wife, who had refused – again – to accompany him, he was free to behave as he wished within these walls. Sleep all day, drink all night, if he wanted to. Varus smiled. He didn’t want to act like a carefree, single tribune again, but it was nice to know that he could do so without being nagged. Outside, he was also master – governor of the whole region, come to monitor the tribes, to see that Rome’s laws were being followed and its taxes being paid. Vetera lay just over a hundred miles to the west. The distance gave Varus immense satisfaction. Only a fraction of the official messages and letters that were the bane of his life in Vetera managed to reach this island of refuge. It wasn’t a coincidence. The important ones did get to Porta Westfalica, but the rest were dealt with on the spot – Varus had delegated the camp commander at Vetera to open every last letter – relieving him, for the summer at least, of a considerable amount of arse-ache.
He took a deep breath of the dawn-crisp air. Gods, but he felt five years younger.
Footsteps behind made him turn. ‘Morning, Aristides.’
‘Good morning, master.’ Aristides was already dressed, and his hair oiled.
Varus couldn’t resist poking fun. His slave didn’t like his room here, or his bed, or much else, as far as Varus could tell. Even the baths – in particular the baths – weren’t up to standard. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Aristides made a face. ‘My rest was tolerable, master, thank you. And you?’
‘I slept like a babe. Now, I’m ravenous.’ Varus clapped his hands and a moment later, a slave emerged from the kitchen. ‘I want a table and chairs out here,’ he said, pointing at a sunny spot in the centre of the courtyard. ‘And food. Lots of it.’
‘At once, master.’ The slave hurried from view.
‘Enjoy your meal, master,’ said Aristides.
Varus cast a look at his scribe, who was also heading for the kitchen. It was Aristides’ habit to breakfast with the other slaves, a situation Varus knew he hated. It wasn’t surprising. The domestic slaves were of several different races, uneducated types who looked down on the learned Greek. Feeling a little sympathy – he wouldn’t want to break bread with most ordinary soldiers – Varus toyed with the idea of inviting Aristides to join him, before dismissing it. His manumission might be impending, but there was no point giving Aristides ideas above his station, something that sharing his master’s table was sure to do. Just because he’s been with me for half a lifetime doesn’t make him my friend, thought Varus.
After a busy morning receiving visitors, Varus had an agreeable meal with Vala, his deputy, a thoughtful, middle-aged man with a shiny bald pate. One cup of wine with the food – fresh-roasted venison in plum sauce – had turned into two, and then three. Varus had had the wherewithal to call a halt at that stage, but there was no denying the warm glow that encased him as he and Vala rode out of the vast camp towards the local set
tlement. Aristides’ disapproving expression and protestations about unfinished paperwork had not been enough to deter Varus from taking a look at the site of the proposed forum.
‘It will wait,’ he’d said to Aristides. ‘I’ll be back within the hour.’ Lips pursed, Aristides had retreated to Varus’ office in silent protest.
A century of legionaries followed on behind Varus and Vala, protection and a mark of the governor’s status rolled into one. Vala was pontificating about something or other to do with the relationship between Tiberius and Augustus. Varus’ attention began to wander, helped by the wine and Porta Westfalica’s surroundings, which fascinated him. The camp’s location was unusual. It had not been built in a strong site – a hilltop, or with good views all around. Instead it had been erected on the bank of the River Lupia. The reasoning for this was sound: equipment, food and supplies could be transported from Vetera to this point, so it needed to be well defended.
Varus was pleased to catch sight of a fleet of sizeable barges approaching from the west. Like as not, their cargo would include large quantities of grain, enough to feed the legionaries for a few days, or half a month, perhaps more. That would keep the quartermasters off his back at least.
‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Vala.
Varus realised that he didn’t have a clue what Vala had been saying. ‘About what?’ he said, without meeting his subordinate’s eye.
There was a short silence, during which Vala must have been wondering where his superior’s head had been, and then he replied, ‘Whether the rift between Tiberius and Augustus has been resolved for good, sir.’