by James Mace
“Is that because he doesn’t think these women are worthy of being warriors or is it simply to protect his niece?”
It was a fair question. The women of Frisia served their people in one of two ways; either they married and bore Frisian children, or they joined the Daughters of Freyja and were trained as warriors. As a member of the royal family, Amke was chosen by King Dibbald to lead the Daughters despite the fact that she was just over a score in years.
“I don’t think he doubts their courage or tenacity,” Klaes answered as they moved on. “Besides me, Amke is the only other child of the Segon line. Father loves her as if she were his own daughter.”
Tabbo nodded, understanding the King’s desire to protect his niece.
Klaes continued, “Our culture has always valued the fighting spirit of our women. It shocks other races that we would allow any of our women to take up arms. By the same token, it also makes them wary of attacking us. Most nations are conquered once the male warriors are dead. In Frisia, they find that our ‘helpless’ women are not so helpless after all.”
Artorius never imagined that he would be suffering from a massive hangover at his own wedding. Nerves had gotten to him the night before and his friends decided to calm him down the only way they could. The manor house that Lady Diana had ordered built was still under construction. However, the banquet hall was complete and had been hastily furnished with some borrowed furniture. All of the Second Century had piled into the hall, sitting around boxes and on the floor when no more couches or table space was available. The other Centurions from the Third Cohort were also there, as were Macro, Proculus, and Master Centurion Calvinus. The usual speeches had been spoken, with everyone offering a drink to Artorius, to the point that early on in the evening he was completely inebriated and unable to stand. The next morning he could not remember if he had vomited on any of the fancier borrowed couches or not.
“You know, they say that Patrician villas have what’s called a vomitorium, where guests go to purge between courses of a fancy meal,” Magnus observed as he helped Artorius into his best looking tunic.
“That’s just a stupid myth,” the Centurion groaned, his head pounding and a wave of nausea rolling over him. He now regretted not having purchased a formal toga. While Options and below wore their issued tunics even when off duty, Centurions and above were strongly encouraged to purchase civilian togas. Artorius hated the garments, feeling that they were neither practical nor even fashionable. He was proud of his muscular physique and he loathed the idea of covering it beneath layers of folded robes.
His hamata mail armor had had to be custom made to fit his disproportionately muscular frame, and it had not yet been delivered. He felt that wearing his battered segmentata would have been in poor taste.
“Do you at least have a decent belt you can wear?” the Norseman asked, rummaging through Artorius’ trunk that he kept at the foot of his bunk. He still lived in the Centurion’s quarters while waiting for the manor house to be completed. “Ah, here we go!”
Artorius strapped up his belt and gave himself a once over. He had bathed, shaved, and tried to fix his hair. He felt he was due to get it cut soon and hoped he would not look as nauseating as he felt. He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced.
“Here,” Magnus said, handing him a small dish smeared in paste and a bristle brush. “Lady Diana sent over some of her white wine based mouthwash that she got specially shipped from Gaul. It’s got a pretty strong scent to it, but at least it will help keep your breath from knocking her and the priest over at the ceremony!”
“That would be well below average,” Artorius muttered in reply.
“I wonder if the gods have a special punishment for that,” Magnus mused. Artorius scrubbed his teeth more vigorously, thankful that at least Roman society had included dental hygiene in their cleanliness evolution.
Diana was giving herself a final critical look in the polished bronze mirror. The slave helping her dress and adorn her hair was misty-eyed.
“My lady looks so lovely,” she murmured. “But, you don’t have an engagement ring.”
“I have the most important thing,” Diana answered. “Artorius is all I need. He’s worth more to me than all the jewels or gold in the world.”
The year that they had spent together had been the happiest time of her life. Now Rome and the gods would join them in a bond that could not be broken, either in this life or the next.
Even though his head was still pounding, Artorius was alert and very nervous when he arrived at the outdoor shrine. A priest assigned to the legion as a spiritual advisor and oracle to the commanding Legate was there to conduct the ceremony. Artorius had declined spending the extra denarii for the auspices, reasoning that if the trials he and Diana had been through had not solidified an eternal bond between them, gutting an ox or a couple birds would not do so either. Two stools with a small table next to one sat before the altar. The table held the honey cake to be shared by the newlyweds, and an offering of it made to Jupiter.
Artorius’ breath was taken from him as the love of his life walked through the arch of climbing roses. It was midmorning and the sun was shining perfectly through the arch, illuminating her glowing face. Artorius felt as if he was staring not at Lady Diana Procula, but the goddess herself, whose name she bore. She wore an elegant white stola trimmed in gold; a crown made of flowers adorned her head where her hair was pulled up. As he took her by both hands, she smiled and winked at him. He had told the priest to keep it short and to the point, not wanting to waste time on pointless ceremony, but Diana also knew what was important in a Roman wedding.
After the priest asked if she consented to the marriage, she spoke the words used for centuries, “Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia. When-and-where you are Gaius; I then-and-there am Gaia.” She squeezed Artorius’ hands as he repeated the words to her, his voice shaking slightly with emotion.
The priest signaled for them to sit on the stools, and taking pieces of the honey cake he offered one first to the altar in honor of Jupiter, and gave the others to Artorius and Diana to eat. Once they had signed the legally binding contract, Artorius had done what he feared would never happen the year prior; he had married his Lady Diana. Nothing could have made them happier.
Olennius hated traveling by cart. He also hated traveling by horse, boat, or any other means for that matter. The fact that he was not at his posting, and had had to wait an entire year for it, irritated him to no end. He was quite the hateful person, having spent his entire life full of suspicion and spite. He blamed his father for his demeanor, though the poor man had died before Olennius was even born. Still, it was that lack of paternal guidance that he used as a crutch to justify his abusive behavior. Only one man, Senator Asinius Gallus, had shown him any sort of fond feelings at all. In fact, he had become Olennius’ sponsor from a young age and had gotten him his posting as a Centurion within the legions. The legions…Olennius hated the legions, perhaps because the familiarity and brotherhood that permeated the ranks had been denied him due to the fact that absolutely no one whom he had been stationed with remotely liked him. Thankfully his required tenure had come to a merciful end, though not before he had fattened his coffers exacting additional tributes in the east, both from the citizenry, as well as his own legionaries.
“How much bloody farther is it?” he snapped at his freedman who accompanied him in the carriage.
“Another day, sir,” the man replied stoically. Olennius knew the servant hated him, enough to wish him dead, no doubt. It did not matter. The only reason the little rat was free was because Olennius’ mother had granted him his freedom in her will. Whether he stayed with Olennius out of loyalty to his deceased matron, or because no one would hire him given where he had worked before, was uncertain.
“Another day,” Olennius replied with a bored sigh. “Let me see those taxation reports again.”
The servant reluctantly handed the scrolls over.
“It’s pretty simple, sir,”
the freedman stated. “The tribute for Frisia has been the same since the time of Drusus Nero. The people have always complied, as well as providing auxiliary troops when required. In return, Rome gives Frisia imperial protection while allowing the Segon Kings to rule semi-autonomously.”
“Yes, well the prior magistrates lacked imagination,” Olennius replied with a sneer. “I have plans for this province, plans that go beyond Drusus Nero’s mere dole of cattle hides.”
“And what may I ask is your plan for the province?” the freedman asked.
The look of concern gave Olennius a certain amount of satisfaction.
“You will see,” he said with an evil grin. “Thorn in my side you may be, but I think you will be thanking me after we are done here. If I have to live in some shithole on the North Sea, then I will do so in comfort. Consider yourself lucky that you have me for an employer and not someone without any desire to better their position in life.”
Chapter VII: Simmering Hatred
***
“I hate the slave markets!” Artorius protested. “They are so damned depressing and smelly.”
“Come on,” Diana coaxed, taking him by the hand. “Every Centurion needs to have his own manservant! Besides, I have my ladies-in-waiting, as well as the household slaves, gardeners, cooks, and of course, Proximo. One more isn’t going to break us financially.”
“I just don’t relish the idea of a bondsman who will have access to my person at all times,” Artorius retorted.
“Oh, don’t be such a big girl’s blouse!” Magnus retorted as he walked behind them, grinning from ear to ear while eating an apple absentmindedly. The Norseman had decided to join his Centurion, claiming he had a good eye for quality slaves. “When was the last time one of our officers got stabbed by his own servant?”
“Yes, well you and I have had our fill of slave rebellions,” Artorius replied, causing Magnus to shrug.
“True,” the Tesserarius acknowledged. “Still, as hateful as it is, without slaves the Empire would probably cease to function. Besides, you can look at it this way; you get to save some poor sod from the mines or other worse fates. You ever notice that when you go to a Roman house that the slaves are almost all women? Most don’t have male slaves. That keeps the master from ever having doubts about the paternity of his children, or at least from having doubts coming from within his own household. A male slave who is not fortunate enough to end up as an army officer’s bondsman usually ends up either in the mines or in the arena.”
Slave markets depressed Artorius with good reason. Though he understood the need for human property, seeing the pitiful creatures that skulked amongst the cages disturbed him. The smell of unwashed bodies and flies swarming over the feces was particularly nauseating on this warm morning. The slave master walked with him, banging on the bars with his staff as Artorius asked to look at ones that might be suitable. Some stared at nothing, not even each other. Each slave had a placard hanging off his or her neck with details about their work history and talents. Prices were left to negotiation.
“What happened to this one,” as he nodded toward a towering youth with a soiled rag for a bandage on his head.
“He got uppity with me the other day, and I had to smack him alongside of his head with my cudgel,” said the slaver. “Now I have lost money on him since he just sits there and drools. He’ll be fodder in the arena for some wild beasts.”
“Let’s see this one,” Artorius directed, pointing to a young man who already stood by the bars. His head hung slightly, hands folded in front of him, though he did not look ashamed. Artorius lifted his placard and was intrigued by what he read.
“Says here that you are an experienced metal worker,” he stated.
“Yes, dominus,” the slave replied.
“It also says that you’re a Jew,” Artorius observed.
“Which seems to drive my price down,” the slave remarked, the corners of his mouth twitching.
He then caught Diana’s stern gaze and immediately dropped his eyes, swallowing hard.
“How much?” Artorius asked the slave master.
“Two hundred denarii.”
“I reckon a skilled metal worker rates that price,” Artorius concurred. “However, the slave here brings up a valid point. As a Jew he is bound to be trouble. I’ll give you one hundred and fifty and take him off your hands now.”
“Done,” the slave master replied hastily with a short bow.
“What is your name?” Artorius asked the slave once they were back at the Century’s barracks.
“Nathaniel, master,” the slave replied.
“I bought you because skilled metal workers are few and far between, and I need someone who can properly maintain armor and weapons. I don’t suppose you have any other useful skills?”
“I can work with leather, master,” Nathaniel replied. “I am also versed in four different languages; Latin, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Gallic.”
“Don’t know that Aramaic or Hebrew will do me any good,” the Centurion observed. “However, I can always use a Gallic interpreter. I don’t suppose you can cook?”
“No, master,” Nathaniel replied, hanging his head.
“Doesn’t matter,” Artorius said with a dismissive wave. “Proximo can cook well enough. Your purpose will be to keep my armor and equipment maintained. Do you know anything about horses?”
“Yes, master.”
“Good,” Artorius gave an approving nod. “I have a horse that needs to be fed and walked daily when I’m not using him. Lady Diana takes him out more than I do, so you will need to have him ready for her use at any time.”
“Yes, master.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?” Artorius asked, trying to size up the man.
“I speak when spoken to, master.”
“One thing I wish to know is whether or not you were born into servitude?” Never having owned a slave before, he had difficulty in assessing just how he was supposed to treat and be familiar with Nathaniel. Ironically, his parents were among the few who had never owned slaves; his father preferring to tend to the vineyards personally. Though the man was his property, he figured it would be best to know as much as he could, since they would be around each other constantly. He supposed that if he wished, he could just ignore the slave like he did anything else.
“I was born a slave,” Nathaniel replied. “My grandparents were servants to King Herod the Great.”
“Hmm,” Artorius replied with eyebrows raised. He did not know if the slave was telling the truth or just trying to sound more important to his new master. It did not matter, and besides, Artorius had little time for pleasantries with someone who was now his property. He was then puzzled when he saw a bulge in the side pocket of Nathaniel’s trousers.
“What have you got there?” he asked, pointing to the pocket. Keeping his eyes lowered, the slave produced a large scroll.
“Just a book, master,” he replied. “I’ve had it with me this whole time. I promise I did not steal it.”
“Well, at least I know you can read.” Artorius then took it from him and opened it. It was all very ornate, though in a language he could not understand. “What the hell is this?”
“This contains the holy writings of my people,” Nathaniel replied. “My previous master let me have it, and the slave drivers never tried to take it from me. They said it kept me quiet.” There was a trace of a smile on his face, though he kept his head lowered respectfully.
Artorius could see the fear in his eyes that he would take the book from him.
“What sort of writings?” he asked as he continued to look through it.
“It is called the Ketuvim,” Nathaniel explained. “It is the third and final section of our holy Tanakh. Sadly, I have never been able to attain the first two sections, the Torah and the Nevi’im.”
“And does reading this holy writing bring you happiness?”
“It does, master. Its words guide my life and help me to find peace.” Nathaniel’s wo
rds had an effect on Artorius, and he handed the scroll back to him.
“If that’s all you need to keep happy, then by all means keep reading it,” he replied. “Serve me well and perhaps one day you will have your other holy writings.” He watched Nathaniel’s face beaming with joy.
This was all too easy! The man did not express a desire to win his freedom or anything extravagant; all he wanted was a roll of parchment containing his people’s holy writings. Artorius reasoned that a few denarii spent on a couple scrolls would be an inexpensive way to keep his man’s loyalty.
“Alright, well, I will show you where all the rags and polish are kept for my kit,” he directed. “I prefer to maintain my gladius myself, although if you have any methods for better maintaining my weapons you are to let me know.”
“Of course, master.”
“Good. I keep my armor and kit at the Century’s billets, so you will be spending time there. After I show you that, I will take you to the manor house. Proximo is the chief slave, and when not taking care of my equipment you will report to him.”
“I understand, master.”
Tabbo scowled when the wagon carrying the new Roman magistrate came to a halt. His predecessor had left with little fanfare, as was often the case. He had done his duty, collected the necessary taxes, and was probably glad to be out of the province. Still, Frisia had to be one of the more painless postings for a magistrate since the people were self-governing. One of the magistrate’s duties was to exert Roman influence whenever needed and to relay any issues from the people to the Senate. This had been all but unnecessary since the kingdom came under Roman influence.
The magistrate exited the wagon and scowled at his surroundings. Tabbo wondered if the man even knew how to smile. The war chief stood to the left, behind the King. Prince Klaes stepped forward as the Roman walked over to them, the never ending scowl still on his face.