“Understood, Tribune Longius,” Lentus replied, smiling, “and thank you on behalf of the men.”
They did not make too bad a show as they entered through the Porta Praetoria before being dismissed. Lucius sent a legionary to the Praetorium to inform the legate of his return and that he would report as soon as he had cleaned up. Otto walked beside the tribune’s horse looking around him in amazement. He had never attended a gathering of more than three hundred human beings in his life; and that had been in a forest glade. There were close to five thousand in the legion camp. Everywhere he looked soldiers were marching or walking in off-duty groups. He passed armouries where sweating men hammered glowing metal over their anvils in showers of sparks, barrack huts; laid out in precise lines with lounging soldiers at their thresholds. He saw so much he could not register it all. To him, the camp was a vast city thrumming with confusing activity. They arrived at the stables where a groom took Lucius’ horse. There were hundreds of other mounts inside or in the nearby pen. It seemed to Otto as if every horse in the world was in sight or hearing. And then there was the negligent display of what was to him, immense wealth. Steel weapons and iron tools everywhere, casually carried or stacked, harness and saddles, mail shirts and helmets wherever he looked; it was impossible to take in. He wondered if this was Rome, so much power and riches were gathered in this place.
Lucius saw Otto staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed. It amused him. He tapped the boy on the shoulder and gestured for him to follow. They made their way to a group of four single storey wooden buildings. They were built of pine planks and roofed with locally made clay pantiles. The roofs swept down at the front and verandas had been constructed underneath the overhang. Lucius strode briskly up the two steps of one and flung open the door of his quarters. There was one large room where the tribune ate and slept, behind it, a kitchen and servant’s cubby hole. The room held a bed, a table, two chairs and a desk. An altar in one corner bore an image of Mars and a shrine to the ancestors of the Longius family. A military chest and a tripod for heating charcoal completed the furnishings. Otto was still studying them as Lucius took off his cloak and threw it on the bed.
“Atrexes!” he shouted for his body slave,
A tall man with tightly curled black hair bustled in from the back room. He smiled broadly but not with his eyes; they were furtive, darting constantly around, they lighted upon Otto standing just within the door and lingered on him a moment. Lucius held his arms out at his sides and without being ordered, Atrexes began to remove his master’s armour. Once his cuirass and back plate had been unbuckled, Lucius bent forward with his arms in front of him and Atrexes pulled his subarmalis over his head. A pungent waft of stale sweat filled the room. Lucius sighed with relief and moved his shoulders to relax them.
“Bath I think, Atrexes. Fetch my blue tunic, a fresh loin cloth, clean boots and my best cloak. I shall report to the legate as soon as I am fit to be seen…and smelled.”
Atrexes brought the required clean clothing and linen then pointed at Otto.
“And what of …” he let the rest of the sentence hang in the air but his distaste was obvious.
Lucius looked at Otto who was trying to make sense of all the unfamiliar items in the room. He was covered in the dirt and dust of the road. His simple leather tunic covering him from one shoulder and down to the knees was shiny in places and well-worn. His shoes looked passable; his mother had sewn them only a few weeks ago.
“Well, he won’t do dressed like that will he?” Lucius mused aloud. “Find him an old tunic of mine and take him to the soldiers’ bathhouse when we are finished.”
“And what is he supposed to be doing here?” the slave asked spitefully.
“Whatever I require, Atrexes.” Lucius snapped.
The bathhouses were primitive when compared with the marble edifices of Roman cities but the legion was proud of what they had been able to do with wood, stone from the riverbed and local tiles. In the essentials, they matched anything in the empire; plentiful fuel for the furnace and a constant supply of clean, fresh water. The officers’ bath slaves soaped and rinsed his body and Lucius went into the hot room where water was poured over an open trough of hot stones to supply the steam. Finally, he moved to the cold plunge from which he emerged gasping to stand while his naked body was towelled. Fragrant oil was poured on him and then he was scraped clean with an ivory tool designed for the purpose. Atrexes and Otto had been standing by all the while and now Lucius called his personal slave forward to dress him.
The tribune ran the palm of his hand over his chin and decided he would be shaved tomorrow. The legate would not mind; after all, Lucius had only just returned from a mission. He repeated it in his head, “returned from a mission”. He liked the sound of it.
The soldiers’ bathhouse was similar to the officers’ but had more wood and fewer tiles. The single slave attendant offered basic services; handing out towels, replacing the hot stones in the steam room and making sure the furnace slaves kept busy. Legionaries usually bathed with their best friends to oil and scrape each other’s backs in the absence of anyone else to help. A pair of them were just finishing when Atrexes and Otto walked in.
“Here, what’s this then?” one of them shouted. “This bathhouse is for soldiers, not slaves and bloody Germans!”
“If you don’t like it, complain to Tribune Lucius Taurius Longius, not me,” Atrexes retorted.
“Talk to me like that and I’ll kick your arse,” the legionary threatened.
Atrexes fawned, what else could he do? He had no rights, no status; he was property and that was all he was. If one of them decided to kick him he could do nothing. If he dared to fight back, they would say he had attacked them and then he would be crucified.
“Apologies masters but what can I do? I have my orders,” he whined.
“Alright then,” the other soldier said. “But watch your lip.”
“Yes, I will; thank you, thank you…”
He had not wanted to take Otto to the bathhouse, he had no wish to help him and now yet another of the countless humiliations of his life had been heaped on him. Atrexes was in a foul mood. He gestured for Otto to strip and shoved him into the cleaning room where he tossed a bar of coarse and gritty soap at him and pointed at the hot water ewers on a shelf. Otto had watched Lucius and knew what to do. But he had never used soap before and did not keep his eyes firmly closed. His discomfort made Atrexes laugh as he led him into the steam room, half blinded after rinsing. There he sat, not knowing why at first but then beginning to appreciate the heat slackening the taut muscles of his neck and shoulders. The cold plunge was something familiar to him. He submerged for a long while, bubbles surfacing from his nostrils, before he burst upwards and climbed out of the bath. Atrexes flung him a towel.
Atrexes watched Otto drying himself and sighed appreciatively. Naked, the youth was magnificent. The proportions of his body were almost perfect. Smooth, adolescent muscles rippled under his flawless white skin as he worked with the towel. The greatest of Greek sculptors, Praxiletes himself, could not have wished for a better model. Atrexes took down a flagon of oil and a scraper. He had intended to ignore that part of the bathing process or watch the boy struggle alone. He smiled at Otto and began to stroke oil onto his body and legs and demonstrate how to use the tool to remove it with the dead skin.
“It’s called a strigil,” he said, holding up the scraper. “Can you say that? Can you say strigil? It’s what we always use, gently but firmly like this. Can you do it? No, I don’t believe you can, you need my help, don’t you?” he crooned as he worked on Otto’s back and thighs. When he had finished, he patted Otto’s shoulder and offered him the tunic Lucius had told him to bring. It was green with some embroidery at the neck and sleeves. It was faded but clean and serviceable and by far the most luxurious garment Otto had put on. It was a winter tunic. Mid-calf length on Lucius, it came to just below Otto’s knees. It was tight across his shoulders but altogether, not a bad fit. Otto
beamed with delight and nodded at Atrexes in the absence of being able to thank him in words.
“Not at all, my boy; you like it don’t you? Haven’t I been kind to you?” he said and led Otto out of the bathhouse once he had laced up his shoes. “Here,” he told the attendant slave, “throw these into the furnace,” indicating Otto’s old clothes with the toe of his boot. They walked through the lines to the tribune’s quarters, Atrexes still holding the strigil and flagon of oil.
Lucius had gone straight back to his hut after the bathhouse and written some notes on a wax tablet. He would refer to them when making his verbal report to Quadratus. He was going to have to tell him about the horses which had been taken in contravention of his orders… and the German boy. He did not quite know what to say about him so decided to leave that until last. He stood up and buckled on his best parade sword in its ornate scabbard and marched up the Via Praetoria.
Centurion Lentus had seen his men to quarters, stood by while the mules he had requisitioned were handed over after a meticulous examination by one of the transport-section who then went on to check their pack saddles and harness before giving him a receipt. He found his optio and gave him his orders for the rest of the day and then went to find First Spear Centurion Attius who was in his office going over supply and medical reports. He was pleased to see Lentus as his arrival meant the paperwork could be ignored for a while. They saluted each other and Attius told Lentus to sit, pulled his own chair around from behind his desk and poured them both a cup of wine.
“First things first, are all the lads back in one piece?” Attius asked.
“Yes, all accounted for without a scratch.”
“And how did Tribune Longius do?”
Lentus was suddenly standing on quicksand and he knew it. If he said the wrong thing in the next few moments, his career could well be over.
“First Spear Centurion Attius, it is not for me to comment on the performance of a senior officer in the field.”
Attius threw back his head and laughed.
“That’s an old soldier’s answer Centurion Lentus but look, here we are sitting sharing a jug of piss pretending to be wine in my private office. Now, between you and me, how did he do?”
Lentus shrugged; he was not in a position to avoid his superior officer’s question.
“He did well, very well. He took charge when he had to and he listened when he had to. We were in the middle of sorting out this German village, blood and skin all over the place, and I thought he was going to puke but he swallowed it back….
“He actually swallowed it?”
“Yes, I saw his throat moving. Anyway, he got on with it. The lads call him Boxer.”
“Boxer?” Attius asked with a puzzled look on his face.
Lentus pushed his own nose sideways with his index finger. Attius grinned.
“Oh, I get it. Always a good sign if the lads give an officer a repeatable nickname.”
Legate Quadratus was patiently listening to his tribune’s account of the expedition. Lucius was going into infinite detail as if he was recounting a great battle to an historian. The legate understood how important it was to the young man that he missed nothing in the retelling. After all, it had been the tribune’s first independent command. As he half listened, keeping a rapt expression on his face, his mind drifted across the years to when he had been so very youthful and so intensely earnest.
Back in the tribune’s quarters, Atrexes motioned Otto to place his hands flat on the desk and lean forward, waving the oil flagon at him. Otto thought that this was something to do with Roman bathing and complied. Behind him, Atrexes lifted up the front of his own tunic and bunched it into his belt. He let his loin cloth drop to the floor at his feet. He anointed the tip of his erect penis with some of the oil, put down the flagon and lifted Otto’s tunic up to his waist. Clasping the boy by the hips he stroked his penis up and down in the cleft of Otto’s buttocks. After a shocked moment of disbelief, Otto clenched tightly. Atrexes put one hand on the nape of his neck and pushed him further forward, bent over the desk.
“Come on now, be nice. I was nice to you.”
He grasped the shaft of his penis with his free hand to help guide it in.
Otto trembled, astonished and horrified. His scrabbling fingers came into contact with the brass and ivory stylus Lucius had left on the desk and seized it. Half turning, he lashed out behind him. The improvised weapon struck Atrexes in the right cheek, went through, scored his tongue and knocked out a tooth on the left side of his jaw. The point jammed in the new gap.
They stared at each other for a moment in appalled mutual non-comprehension.
Atrexes tried to protest but his mouth was flooded with salty blood. In his in agony he could not speak or cry out, only burble and moan. He did not understand what had he done to deserve this. He had been gentle with the boy and helped him. Why had this young savage turned on him?
Otto’s eyes were flashing blue fire and his lips were curled in a wolf’s snarl. He saw Lucius’ service sword in its scabbard on the bed and lunged for it. As the steel blade came free with a hissing sound, Atrexes guessed what was going to happen next and ran for it. He fled out of the door, down the veranda in one jump and hurtled towards the Praetorium where his master was, hoping for sanctuary before this German madman cut him down.
Chapter 9
Attius and Lentus lifted their heads at the explosion of voices outside; men were hooting, cheering and catcalling. Attius rose to his feet, frowning. There was clearly some serious breach of discipline going on. He would stamp on it, instantly. He flung open his door, Lentus at his shoulder. The sight he saw outraged his sense of what was proper in a well-run legion camp. A man he recognised as Tribune Longius’ body slave was sprinting up the middle of the street. His arms and legs were pumping. Spatters of blood flew back from his open mouth and ran down one cheek onto his sodden tunic. Behind him, and gaining fast, a German with a naked sword was in pursuit. The centurions looked at each other in bewilderment then stepped outside. As Otto flew past, Lentus kicked the legs from under him. Attius stretched out his hand and grabbed his wrist, wrenching the sword from his grasp. Otto smashed into the packed earth and the breath went out of him. They dragged him to his feet. As each of them pinned one arm, there was a burst of renewed cheering from the off-duty legionaries who had been making all the racket.
“How did he get into the camp?” Attius asked, shaking Otto.
“He’s the tribune’s boy. He brought him back from the raid,” Lentus told him. “I knew he’d be trouble.”
Quadratus and Lucius had heard vague sounds penetrating from outside but ignored them until the general cheer when Attius and Lentus had dropped Otto and disarmed him. Irritated, Quadratus shouted to his clerks to ask what was going on but received no answer. He opened the inner door to see them crowded in the main entrance staring out into the street. They scattered back to their desks like a flock of startled birds when they heard their grim-faced legate approaching.
Atrexes had reached the steps of the Praetorium. The guards had seen him coming, pursued by an armed German and had dropped into defensive position, shields up and javelins levelled. Atrexes stumbled to a halt, pointing at his ruined face and making incomprehensible sounds as he tried to explain and to beg for his master.
Quadratus looked out at his camp and almost let his jaw drop at the sight in front of him. Over the heads of his guards, he saw a panting, bleeding civilian kneeling on the ground and lifting imploring hands. To add to the bizarre sight, there was something sticking out of his face. Behind him, Attius and Lentus were marching towards him restraining a German youth he had never seen before. His first thought was that the prisoner in the grip of his centurions must be a fanatic who had somehow broken into the camp to assassinate whoever he could. To cap it all, both sides of the Via Praetoria were lined with grinning soldiers
“Restore order, First Spear Centurion Attius,” he called.
Attius nodded at Lentus who
tightened his grip on Otto. Attius released his, saluted the legate, turned on his heel and faced back down the street.
“You will stop this shameful conduct right now. Report yourselves to your centurions or optios to beg pardon for your disgraceful behaviour, all of you. Get going,” he bellowed in a voice loud enough to be heard up on the southern gate. The soldiers shoved each other out of the way in their haste to be out of the basilisk gaze. They were going to have a hard few days until their first spear centurion was satisfied that they understood how angry they had made him.
“Has anyone the slightest idea of what is going on here?” Quadratus asked, icily.
“The bloke what was running away is Tribune Longius’ personal slave, sir, and the one who was after him with a sword is the tribune’s German boy he captured,” Lentus replied with a certain self-righteous air. Had he not said all along that Otto’s throat should be slit?
“Is this true?” the legate demanded.
“Well… yes… sort of… sir,” Lucius said, stumbling over his words.”
Quadratus glared at him.
“We shall discuss this disgrace inside but not in my quarters,” he pointed at Atrexes who was now pale and nearly fainting from his pain and loss of blood. “I don’t want him dripping all over my floor. We’ll use the outer office.”
They trooped in after him.
“Wait outside all of you,” he ordered the clerks.
Quadratus folded his arms and looked at each member of the assembled group in turn. Lucius was clearly anxious. Atrexes’ head was beginning to droop. Attius was a mass of seething outrage. Lentus seemed to be almost smiling. The German looked outside of himself with fury.
“Can we try to make some sense of what has been a public entertainment up to now?” Quadratus asked and looked first to Atrexes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Atrexes pointed at his wounded face and tried to speak but he could not articulate properly; gouts of blood fell from him mouth.
Knight of Rome Part I Page 9