by Carol Ashby
“Let’s go.”
He reined Astrelo toward the garrison gate. Adela fell in beside him. An hour or so up the road, then he’d make camp. That would leave time for a Latin lesson. Octodurus was south of Germania Superior in the province of Alpes Poeninae. The locals would speak Gallic, not Germanic. Good thing she wanted to learn the Imperial tongue. If Otto wasn’t in the ludus there, she might need it before they were through.
He glanced at the lovely profile of the strong woman beside him. It was good to have her as company on the hunt. She’d be good company, no matter what they were doing. She shouldn’t worry about what would happen when he took her home. Any man who didn’t follow Jesus would be a fool if he didn’t want her as his wife.
Galen had taken them ten miles down the road back to Augusta Raurica before he turned aside at a small stream and led Adela up it.
“We’re in luck.” He pointed at a beaver dam. The pond behind it was surrounded by a meadow with scattered splashes of yellow and blue from wildflowers. “Grass for the horses, and enough water for a swim. That’s almost as good as going to the baths. Not as warm as the caldarium, but it should be warm enough.”
He swung his leg over Astrelo’s neck and slid off. “Time for a break, boy…for you and me.” He released the cinch and lifted the saddle from Astrelo’s back. The stallion swished his luxuriant tail and ambled away to graze.
Galen arched his back and found himself looking up at Adela’s uneasy face. He rested his hand on her horse’s neck. “Do you know how to swim?”
“Some…” She bit her lip. “But I don’t think I will.”
“I’ll stay away while you do, if that’s the problem.”
“It’s not.” The hint of pink on her cheeks told him the opposite.
She cleared her throat. “I think I’ll set some snares to catch a rabbit or something while you swim. That was why you bought the twine, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” He grinned at her. “You catch it, and I’ll skin it and cook it. As much as I like cheese and dried fruit, roast rabbit sounds better.”
Adela slipped off her horse, and Galen unsaddled it.
“The twine’s in the sack I tied on your horse.” He reached into the sack, rummaged a little, and pulled out the ball of twine.
Galen watched Adela walk to the woods at the edge of the meadow and begin looking for a game trail. Then he strolled to the edge of the pond. He pulled his shirt over his head. As it cleared his eyes, she came back into view. She was bent over, setting a branch that would trigger the snare. The corner of his mouth rose.
Hunting for Otto was the last thing he’d ever wanted to do, but he couldn’t have a better companion in the hunt.
Adela nibbled the last bit of flesh from the leg bone of the rabbit. Galen had cooked it exactly how she liked it―no pink near the bones but not cooked until it was tough. It had been the best meal since they started the hunt for his friend.
Galen had moved two rocks that were big enough to sit on near the campfire, and he stretched his legs out in front of him. The slight smile that always played on his lips accompanied his contented sigh. He laced his fingers together and rested them on top of his head.
“That was a good dinner. Good thing you know how to read the trails and set a trap a rabbit won’t see. I didn’t expect a catch that fast.”
Adela felt her smile grow. “To hunt and fight are two things all Hermunduri women must learn.”
Galen unlaced his fingers and pointed at her. “There’s something else this Hermunduri woman needs to learn, so let’s get started. I thought we’d practice a few words before we work on writing again.”
He rubbed his freshly shaved cheek. He’d used his dagger, and there had been something fascinating about him scraping away the short hairs. But with the beard gone, she could see the cut clearly.
A twinge of guilt niggled at her as she looked at what would soon be a scar.
“What words?”
“Some that you’ll likely hear me speak in the towns we pass through. Others might speak them, too.”
“I’m ready for that.”
Galen ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ll be asking some directions when we get back to Augusta Raurica, so let’s work on those. Where is the garrison? Ubi praesidium?”
Adela perked up. “Where is the garrison? Ubi prae…How did it end?”
“Praesidium. That means garrison. Ubi is the “where is” part.
“Ubi praesidium?” Adela arched her eyebrows as she asked.
“Very good. Quod via Romam?”
“Quod via Romam?” Her head tipped “What did I just say?”
“Which road to Rome?” He chuckled. “Not that we’ll have to go that far. Otto will be in Octodurus, and I know the way there. Quod is which and via is road or way.”
He rubbed his uncut cheek “Of course, I could also ask Romae via qua? Which road goes to Rome?”
Adela’s brow furrowed. “But that’s the same question, and you said two different things for it.”
“I did. You can ask either way, but maybe we should stick to one for now. Which do you like better?”
“Quod via Romam.”
He nodded. “For different towns, you just use the town name instead of Romam. The end on the name of the town changes, but people will know what you mean even if you don’t change it.”
Adela rolled her eyes. It was not going to be as easy to learn this as Galen claimed. Maybe there was a good reason her brother took years to learn Latin.
Her eye-roll pulled a smile from Galen. “You can practice those two for a while. Ubi praesidium? Quod via Romam?”
She picked up a stick. “You taught me letters faster.” She traced out A-D-E-L-A, then G-A-L-E-N. The words made a good pair together in the dirt.
She glanced at Galen in time to see his broad grin. When it came to hunting a missing man, she and Galen made a good pair, too.
Octodurus, Day 6
Sunset painted the massive snow-capped mountains rising east of Octodurus with changing shades of pink, but Otto’s gaze focused on the gray stone walls of the amphitheater. They weren’t even two stories high. No graceful arches invited the spectators in. No carved figures of fighting men adorned its walls to create the illusion that fame and glory awaited the fighters who would bleed and die on the sand inside.
It was smaller than the one in Mogontiacum. But Germania Superior was an important frontier province, and its location on the Rhenus made it much more than a legion fortress town. Even with so many of the six thousand legionaries of the XXII Primigenia stationed in remote garrisons, it needed more space for its spectacles of death. Octodurus was the capital of a small senatorial province. The days when legions fought there for the future glory of the Empire were long past.
Otto swallowed hard. He’d never dreamed of a glorious future in battle. What awaited him inside those walls was not glory. It might not even be a future.
The mule driver skirted the amphitheater and reined in by the building next door. The gate at the back of the cart dropped, and the ox-like man poked Otto with his stick. “Get out, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
When his fellow prisoners had joined him, they were prodded toward the door under a sign made of two short wooden planks: Ludus Octoduri.
The man who’d bought him from Gundahar met them inside and led them down a ramp to an inner courtyard covered with sand. Around its edge were heavy wooden stakes the height of a short man.
A burly man with a long scar on his cheek stood with arms crossed and a slight frown.
Otto’s captor waved his hand at the three shackled men. “You couldn’t find better than these for three-on-three.” He strode over to Otto and slapped his shoulder. “Bjorn here is the son of a Langobardi chieftain, lethal with the weapons of the north country, and handsome enough to please the ladies during the procession.”
Otto opened his mouth to declare that a lie. Before
he could speak, the stick of the ox-man struck the side of his head. His captor glowered. “Silence.”
The trainer rubbed his scar. “I’ll give you 400 denarii for the whole lot.”
Their captor frowned as he shook his head. “They’re worth at least 200 each.”
“Not to me, and probably not to anyone else. But you can keep driving south to find out.”
“You know I can’t do that.” He heaved a sigh. “I’ll take the 400.”
Otto’s new owner summoned his assistant with a flick of his hand. “Put them in the cell and feed them.”
As Otto left the arena, he heard his captor’s voice. “The big one is hard to handle. You’ll want two men to take his shackles off.”
He was herded with the others into a cell with two sets of bunk beds. Lothar and Baldwin were unshackled and took the longer set, leaving him with the bed too short for a man his height to stretch out on. Another gladiator joined them and pinned his arms while his shackles were removed.
Otto offered no resistance. There was no point in fighting when there was no chance of escape, and guards get careless when a prisoner submits without complaint.
A boy of about ten brought a tray with three bowls of porridge and handed one to Otto as he stood by the bars. He filled the spoon and took his first bite.
The gruel was disgustingly bland. There was no seasoning to give it a tantalizing flavor, like when Galen’s sister made it. Not what he’d choose to eat, but he was hungry enough to eat anything. Galen would tell him it was tasty enough to be thankful for and ask for the rest of Otto’s bowl when he’d eaten all he wanted.
He drew a deep breath and shoveled another spoonful into his mouth. Galen was right. For a man who was hungry enough, even unseasoned barley gruel was worth being thankful for.
Galen put another small log on the fire as Adela lay down on the bedroll and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She wiggled under the covers to get comfortable and let her gaze settled upon him.
He settled onto his rock, rested his elbows on his knees, and lowered his forehead onto his clasped hands. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed, and the trace of a smile that always lingered on his lips broadened. Then all the tension seemed to drain out of him. When he finally opened his eyes, his gaze settled on her, and the smile grew.
“Good night, Adela. Rest in peace.”
He settled under his blankets, closed his eyes, and was asleep before Adela decided whether she should answer.
A shiver ran up her spine. Rest in peace. She’d done that before Gundahar’s final words; it wasn’t so easy now. But Galen was probably right that Gundahar had never done what he said. Her kidnapper was so good at lying that he’d almost convinced the warrior with the crest that Galen was lying instead of him. Only her amulet had proven to the Roman that Galen spoke the truth.
Besides, surely she would have known if Gundahar had done something when she awoke, bound and draped on the horse. Even if she was dressed in the slave tunic.
It’s only a lie. It’s not true, like Galen said. She forced her breathing to slow as she repeated Galen’s words, and sleep finally came.
Chapter 14: No Better Teacher
Day 7
Adela and Galen set out early the next morning. It was still a two-day ride back to Augusta Raurica.
She was mostly satisfied with what happened to Gundahar and Gerlach, even though Galen hadn’t let her watch them die. But the third kidnapper had escaped justice, and Galen’s friend was still a slave.
And what had they done with Gunda? Adela’s lips tightened. She was gone when Adela awoke, bound and draped over the horse. They must have killed her. Had Father found her body to give her proper burial?
Her brow furrowed. But maybe Gunda got away, and Gundahar just hadn’t wanted to admit that. He never did answer her questions; he only laughed. She’d taken the third kidnapper’s horse, and Gerlach and Gundahar both chased her. If Gunda ran fast enough or hid well enough…
If Gunda told Father they took her, he would have hunted for her. After ten days, had he given her up as dead, or was he still looking? Even if he was, he would never look so far from home and inside the Empire.
Adela bit her lip. She’d already been missing ten days. It would be at least another ten before Galen could get her home. After so long, would Father think she’d been spoiled for marriage to a chieftain’s son? Gundahar hadn’t done anything, but would Father believe that? And even if he did, would any chieftain want his son to marry a woman who’d been gone for so long from her father’s household and couldn’t prove she hadn’t been with a man? Was Gundahar right? Was she less valuable to her father than a slave?
She focused on Galen as he rode just ahead of her. Maybe she was worrying over nothing. Galen was wise in the ways of the world, and he thought what Gundahar said must be lies. At the gaming table, Gundahar told Otto she was worth a lot of money because she was a virgin, so he didn’t do anything when she was knocked out.
Galen was right that she shouldn’t believe anything Gundahar said in Brigantium. Galen would swear she’d been under his protection and that he’d made sure nothing happened from the moment Otto won her.
And Galen was so sure a German chieftain would be glad to get his daughter back. Father hadn’t always listened to her, but he did trust her. She’d be able to convince him that Galen had protected her during their journey, and there was no reason he couldn’t arrange her marriage to a chieftain’s son.
She studied Galen’s dark hair and the skin of his neck that was so brown compared to hers. He was so obviously Roman. Father hated the Roman warriors, but he admired them, too, for their bravery and loyalty. Galen had both.
Father was an honest man. Surely he’d be able to tell that Galen’s word could be trusted. Who could look into those honest brown eyes and not see Galen spoke the truth?
Galen had been leading them at a trot, but he reined in and dropped back beside Adela.
“Ready for your next Latin lesson?”
“Of course.” Anything to get her mind off her kidnapping was welcome.
“You’ll need to know some words that name things. The ends of the naming words change, depending on how you use them. There are six endings, but if you use the wrong one, it’s not a problem. People will figure out what you mean.”
He reached to rub his cut cheek, then dropped his hand before touching it.
Adela glanced away, then back at him. “It won’t look bad, you know. Some women think a scar makes a man look…strong.”
A chuckle escaped him. “Looking strong is good. Being strong is better, and that has nothing to do with how a man looks…or how big he is. It’s the heart, not the height that matters.” His lips settled into a crooked smile. “I don’t care what it looks like. Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes said he meant that, but her regret remained.
“You’ll also need to know some of the words that tell what you’re doing or what you want to do. That’s a little harder. There are…” He ticked something off on his fingers. “I’m sorry to say there are fourteen different sets of endings, and two to six endings in each set.”
Adela’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Don’t panic, Adela. I can make it a lot simpler than it sounds and still teach you enough for you to talk with someone.”
“Maybe it’s too hard for me.”
The crooked smile appeared again. “Nothing is too hard for a chieftain’s daughter like you. We have plenty of time to work on it as we ride.” The smile turned into a full-blown grin. “After all, even a three-year-old Roman can speak enough Latin to be understood, and you’re much smarter than that.”
Galen’s head tipped. “Let’s start simple so you can hear how endings change from me to you to him. Or her. The ending is the same for those. For I am, you are, he is, we are, you are, they are, the Latin is sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt.”
Galen raised one hand and waved it in time wi
th the Latin words as he said them again. “I think reciting to a rhythm helps me remember. Try it.”
She sucked air through her teeth. “Sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt.”
He flashed a grin at her. “Yes! See how easy that is?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“It’s even better to sing it.” His deep voice broke into song as he waved his arm.
Adela couldn’t stop the giggle.
His hand paused mid-air. “Join me in the song.”
As his hand kept the rhythm, her voice blended with his. The fourteen sets of six endings might be more than she’d ever master, but no one could have a better teacher.
Otto stirred the third bowl of steaming polenta the kitchen boy had placed before him. He was glad to have it, even if the barley porridge was bland and boring. Barley porridge, barley bread, barley in the vegetable stew―no wonder a gladiator was sometimes called a hordearius. “Barley man” summed up his diet perfectly.
At least he was out of the shackles, and he’d been served as many bowls as he asked for. As he licked the last morsels from the spoon, the lanista strode into the dining area.
“You three.” He pointed at Otto and the other two men who’d come from Augusta Raurica with him. “You’ll be with Magnus today.”
One of the gladiators stood and summoned them with a flick of his hand. Otto rose and followed him down a short hall and out into a small, sandy arena. Around the edge, heavy stakes about the height of a man were set upright in the ground.
He scanned the arena wall. Only one entrance, and no way to go through it without being seen by a trainer.
The gladiator led the three to a rack of long wooden swords, each with metal embedded in the handle to increase the weight. “You’ll be using these on the palus, and I’ll be telling you how to use them.” He swung the sword through the air at waist level, lifted it high to twirl it over his head, and finished with a lunging stab.