John Roberts - Nobody Loves a Centurion

The leader of our party called out something and men came running with a pair of heavy stakes and a wooden maul. They pounded the stakes into the ground a few paces in front of the wooden god or whatever it was. When they were finished, I watched with great interest to see what their next move would be. If they had proceeded to sharpen the stakes, I planned to find the largest, meanest-looking German in the camp and spit in his eye. If I did that, he might strike me dead immediately. I did not like the idea of impalement, the one death that may be even more horrible than crucifixion.

To my relief, they merely whittled deep grooves around the stakes a few inches below the hammered tops. Hermes and I were then thrust down into a sitting posture and our tethers tied securely to the grooves in the stakes. After testing our bonds to make sure they were secure, the Germans wandered off in search of dinner or perhaps a quick pot of mead or ale or whatever awful stuff they drank.

“Wonderful,” Hermes muttered. Then, seeing that nobody was going to hit him for speaking, he went on in a firmer voice, “Now we’re going to be sacrificed. Maybe eaten. We should have run. At least it would have been quicker.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “They might simply have crushed the bones of our feet to prevent us escaping and then marched us back here. Altogether, we made the more comfortable choice.”

“If Ionus makes it back and reports us captured,” he said hopefully, “someone will come out to rescue us, won’t they?”

“Undoubtedly,” I said, knowing that nobody would bother. One expendable, supernumerary officer and a slave were hardly worth exposing a large number of men to unknown dangers.

For the remainder of the evening I tried to assess the number of the Germans, but I was able to gather little intelligence. Men were always coming and going, singly or in parties. The great simplicity of their dress and belongings made it equally difficult to judge things like purpose or permanence. They probably lived much like this at home, and I could not guess whether this was a raiding party or a part of an army gathered for a genuine campaign. Although most were warriors in their prime, some were boys too young to shave even if Germans shaved, while a number were gray-bearded men of astonishingly advanced years for such a life. These elders seemed just as active as the rest, though.

Sometimes I saw men bearing swords and perhaps a few ornaments of hammered silver, but whether these were just leading warriors or princes I could not guess. Nobody saluted or showed particular signs of deference to anyone and I began to wonder whether this society resembled one of those Golden Age legends when everyone was supposed to be equal. Well, I suppose equality makes sense when every man is an unwashed, bloodthirsty savage.

As the dark drew on, hunting parties and patrols converged upon the camp. I saw a number of men, most of them beardless youths, leaving at this time. I guessed that they would take up their posts in the trees, relieving the sentries I had seen that afternoon.

Fires were built up and the now-butchered game animals began to roast on spits. The smell that drifted over the clearing made my stomach rumble and my mouth water.

“You’d think they’d bring us something to eat,” Hermes complained as the warriors tore into the rations with their wolfish teeth.

“It does seem somewhat lacking in courtesy,” I said. “However, this beats being on the menu ourselves.” The Germans ate like characters out of Homer, whose heroes never seem to eat anything but meat. These men from beyond the Rhine were capable of wolfing down several pounds at a sitting, with never a morsel of bread or bite of fruit by way of variety. They tossed the bones into the fires and wiped their greasy hands on the ground, dusting off the dirt fastidiously. A few of them began a sort of communal growling which may have been a form of song.

Nobody paid us the slightest attention, for which I was cautiously grateful. At this point, a swift death seemed an impossibly optimistic prospect. The less notice I received from these terrible predators, the better. Exhausted by the long, sleepless night and the day’s events, I began to nod off into a stupor when a change in the pervasive mutter made me jerk awake. The band had fallen silent.

“Somebody’s coming out of that big hut,” Hermes almost moaned. “What now?”

I could see shapes moving within the larger hut’s doorway. Then someone ducked through and strode toward where the two of us were tethered. There was something familiar in that walk. Then I was looking up those long, shapely legs, past that lush, fur-clad body to that incomparable face.

“Well, Freda! Fancy meeting you here! This is just a misunderstanding, isn’t it? Why don’t you just release us and we’ll all make ourselves comfortable and. .” If I hadn’t jerked my tongue back quickly I would have bitten it clean off when she kicked me in the jaw. The warriors all laughed uproariously at this display of sterling wit.

“Good thing she’s barefoot, eh?” Hermes said. I detected satisfaction in the little wretch’s voice. He had been catching all the punishment so far.

I managed to regain a sitting position and blinked stars from my eyes. When I could see clearly again, the fires were flaring high. Freda still stood over me, but her customary sullen expression was gone. She was smiling merrily, delighted at having me at her mercy.

Her facial expression was not all that had changed. She still wore a fur tunic, but this one was a bit more modest, and instead of common fox skin it was made of magnificent pelts, probably sable. Over her shoulders was a short mantle of ermine, the black-tipped tails dangling. She wore a heavy Gallic necklace of gold, and bands of gold around her wrists and upper arms.

“You seem to have come up in the world,” I said. “Congratulations.”

She covered her lips with her fingers and giggled girlishly, then she called something and a warrior handed her a thick, four-foot rope of braided hide. With this she proceeded to flog me into a state very little short of unconsciousness.

“That was uncalled for, Freda,” I said as I lurched dizzily back to a sitting posture. “I always treated you with unfailing kindness.”

“You treated me as a slave, Roman,” she said, finally able to restrain her mirth sufficiently to force out a few words.

“You were a slave,” I pointed out, bracing myself for another flogging. Fortunately, this particular sort of fun seemed to have lost its charm for her.

“I have never been any man’s slave,” she told me.

“If that is so,” I said, “then you are not the only person to have lied to me recently.”

Somebody approached from behind her and her shapely, bare foot came up again. I braced myself for another kick, but her foot only settled gently, almost caressingly, into the jointure between neck and shoulder. She began to press downward.

“On your face, Roman.” I went over on my side, then sprawled on my belly and turned my face to one side lest I be smothered. Freda pressed my face into the dirt, and it was no symbolic gesture. The woman leaned her whole weight upon that foot until I was sure my neck would snap. I could barely drag air into my lungs. All I could see before my painfully bulging eyes was a pair of enormous feet, shod in soft leather sewn with gold wire.

A voice almost too deep to be human said something and the foot was lifted. Another voice, male and familiar, translated: “Your obeisance is accepted. You may sit up now.”

From my facedown sprawl I struggled back into a sitting posture. This is a difficult feat with one’s hands tied behind. I fear that what little dignity I had left suffered. This being the case, I was careful to keep my face immobile, a perfect mask of Roman dignitas and gravitas . It was well that I did so, for when I was upright with my eyes uncrossed, I was looking up at the most terrifying human being I had ever beheld.